


The Angel Flies Again

by PippaLovesTunaBrick (SevralShips)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: All my fics have most of the same tags, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, It's romantic smut, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Mild Smut, Moral Dilemmas, NSFW, Near Death Experiences, Other, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Partners in Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revolution, Self-Sacrifice, Stolen Identity, There's some domestic stuff amidst the angst too, They are angsty bois ok, specific tags in chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevralShips/pseuds/PippaLovesTunaBrick
Summary: When someone bearing an uncanny resemblance to Nureyev is arrested for his crimes on Brahma, Nureyev and Juno travel back to Nureyev's home planet to prevent an innocent person from paying the ultimate price. There, they find answers they never expected, and are faced with choices that threaten the happy existence they've managed to find together among the stars.
Relationships: Jupeter - Relationship, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	1. Ping

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was sparked by my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt of 'Stolen Identity' but it totally took on a life of its own way beyond that!
> 
> TWs for this chapter:  
> canon-typical reference to crimes  
> panic response  
> moral quandary
> 
> I have the entire story written but am going to stagger posting a little bit >:3

I thought precious little of it when my comms  _ ping _ -ed the first time that evening. After all, it was by no means unusual for it to do so. Needless to say, I was in the habit of silencing the device’s volume at times when stealth was a concern, when I was wearing a false name or creeping unseen where I ought not to be. But when I was folded comfortably against the headboard in bed, an old paper novel in hand and the love of my life snoozing peacefully against my thigh… well, why not let the thing  _ ping _ away to its heart’s content?

I read another sentence in my book and it  _ ping- _ ed again. And then again. I glanced at it, lying atop the nightstand as I’d left it, its screen glowing blue in the warm dim lamplight of the room that Juno and I shared aboard our ship. I watched it for a few seconds’ consideration and then turned my attention decisively back to my book, only for the comms to go off again before I had the chance to locate the word where I’d left off.

It was unusual, but not unheard-of, for this to happen. I’d long since kept the habit of flagging the various aliases I’d used over the years, one of many precautions I had in place to prevent being caught unawares. I aspired always for anonymity that verged on invisibility. Though many of the roles I’d played had no doubt made an impression on my marks and any bystanders, most of them shared my knack for disappearing, swept away on an interstellar breeze and leaving people scratching their heads. But I, like everyone else in this universe, am far from perfect, and some jobs do not go off without a hitch. As a result, there are some of my aliases that have made themselves quite conspicuous. So occasionally, despite my best efforts, I was recognized somewhere and a sighting was filed, or else some crime I had nothing at all to do with was attributed to one of the names I’d worn in my illustrious career of dishonesty. 

The vast majority of the time, the alerts were nothing with which to concern myself. Some tabloid listicle or other that had mentioned Percival Trix’s theft of the Calliope Opal on Tenjin, or Cassius Bliss’ disastrous attempt at robbing the Nova Costume Gallery. Every once in the very bluest of moons, something a little more intriguing would crop up, such as speculation that one of my many names had had something to do with a recently misplaced artifact or an unexplained high-profile death.

Troubling, perhaps, in a philosophical sense, but seldom troubling enough to bother me.

The exception were the occasional mentions out in the vast cyber-verse of Peter Nureyev, the elusive Angel of Brahma. Those troubled me more acutely, like something jagged caught between my fingernail and my nailbed. They were usually precious more than clickbait about urban legends, or some conspiracy fanatic with a madcap theory about who I  _ really _ was. They were usually unfounded, from some disreputable source, lacking any and all foundation in fact. Usually, in short, they were drivel.

But every now and again, they were not.

As was the case that night, when upon the sixth  _ ping _ , my curiosity got the better of me at last and I looked at my comms.

_ ‘PETER NUREYEV IN CUSTODY’ _

_ ‘REBEL PETER NUREYEV APPREHENDED, AWAITING JUDGMENT’ _

_ ‘ANGEL OF BRAHMA’S WINGS CLIPPED AT LAST’ _

_ ‘BRAHMESE VIGILANTE THIEF CAUGHT RED-HANDED’ _

_ ‘20 YEAR SEARCH FOR PETER NUREYEV ENDS’ _

_ ‘ ‘ANGEL OF BRAHMA’ NUREYEV FACES JUSTICE FOR CRIMES’ _

My heart pounded against my ribcage like a caged bird, blood rushing deafeningly in my ears. I tapped the first article, glancing suspiciously at the door, as if New Kinshasan armed guards would bust in any second. I sat up in bed, legs tensed beneath me, ready to pounce over Juno and into a fight should the need arise. I looked back at my comms, skimming impatiently.

‘ _ Snotra, 0100: Twenty-two years after the infamous Peter Nureyev’s act of terrorism on New Kinshasa, the mysterious criminal has finally been tracked down. The man many call the ‘Angel of Brahma’ was apprehended by security personnel at an undisclosed establishment on Snotra, in the Frigg district. Snotran officials are in talks with New Kinshasan Prime Minister, Brutus Bridle in regards to Nureyev’s extradition to his home planet.’ _

I had not set foot on Brahma’s neighbor moon Snotra in years, and that was the piece that inexplicably convinced my heart to desist in its attempts to escape my chest. As the sheer panic ebbed, a more suffocating conflict took its place. Should I perhaps feel  _ relieved _ ? Whoever had been apprehended on Snotra was obviously not me, but if they should take the fall for my youthful transgressions, it would set me  _ free.  _ If Peter Nureyev were no longer ‘at large’, I could at last stop running from the threat of being caught, recognized, identified, made to answer for Mag’s aborted plan from all those years ago. I still would not be able to use the name, of course, but perhaps I could find a measure of the peace that was beyond the grasp of any such person as found themself living on the lam.

And yet… I would never find  _ peace _ by allowing some luckless stranger to pay for crimes they had not committed. My gaze slid back to Juno, as it so often did in moments of uncertainty. Somehow looking at his face made it easier, more straightforward, to know what I wanted. To know what it was that I  _ believed  _ in, truly. His hair clung to the static electricity of the pillowcase and tangled across his forehead. His eyepatch had been discarded, but I was tempted to kiss the uncomfortable-looking indent where it had pressed against his temple all day, to kiss down his sweet face to where his soft lips were parted. His eyelashes brushed his cheeks, fluttering now and then in some private dream, as his chest rose and fell with his deep slumberous breath. 

Yes, these days, when I found myself mired in an ethical quandary, I would ask myself what Juno would do. My dear, exquisitely noble Juno would  _ never _ stand by and allow such injustice as an innocent man taking the fall. But… could he forgive me if  _ I _ allowed such injustice? He might forgive it, but he shouldn’t have to. My love had compromised more for me already than I ever could have asked. Perhaps if I could conceal it, but… my stomach squirmed uneasily; no, I would not lie to him again, not now when our love finally rested on a firm foundation of honesty and trust.

No. This was not something I could ignore. But nor would I act rashly.  _ Lesson one of thieving, always do your homework. _ Research first,  _ always  _ research first.

I read the next article, but gleaned nothing that the first had not offered. As I was reading the fourth, my comms  _ ping _ -ed again. I had learned that Snotra had agreed to extradite the alleged Peter Nureyev to Brahma, and that he had been arrested in a Snotran cybernetic clinic of some sort. My blood ran cold as I read the sixth article, reading and re-reading the words ‘ _ New Kinshasan officials have confirmed that Nureyev is a conclusive match to the man seen in the security footage that made him famous, as well as to genetic material gathered from the site of his crime more than two decades ago.’ _

A genetic match? That had to be a mistake, or a forensic analyst had been paid off to tell the press what Minister Bridle needed publicized. This  _ was _ Peter Nureyev, the journalists seemed to insist. Why, I might have been convinced myself, had I not known it to be impossible.

I tapped over to the most recent notification and dropped my comms as if I’d been burned, shocked by the videofeed that greeted me. It wasn’t me, I  _ knew _ that, but even so as I picked my comms back up and peered down at the image, I couldn’t help but feel a little like I was looking in a mirror.

The resemblance was complete enough to fool anyone but me. The man on my screen was a little heavier than I, but had the same exact tall, lanky frame. He had not been as vigilant as I in dyeing the silver strands at his temples, but his hair was the same, cropped shorter than mine at present, but with the same glossy wave to it, the same forelock that fell rakishly (and perhaps sometimes unmanageably) across his brow. His understated round glasses were not a style that I had ever favored, and I rarely allowed stubble to shadow my jaw, but one did not need my mastery of disguises to brush those differences off as superficial. Most damningly, the man had my same dark, clever eyes (one sporting a vivid purple bruise at the moment), my same pointed features, my same secretive mouth. And when a microphone was thrust in front of him, he opened his mouth to speak and showed the same unusually sharp canine teeth. 

I fumbled on the nightstand to grab my earpiece and shove it into my ear, tapping the video back, burning up with fascination. The interviewer was speaking to my handcuffed doppelganger, asking in the cadence of New Kinshasa, “ _ —downtrodden of Brahma, do you have anything to say to them?” _

The man who was not —  _ could not be  _ — Peter Nureyev turned so that his eyes found the camera lens, and the familiar unfamiliarity of that stranger’s gaze pierced into my very soul, “ _ The Angel of Brahma,” _ he said, as if addressing me directly in that voice so like my own, “ _ Will fly them safely home.” _

_ “What do you mean by that?” _ the interviewer was asking, but the guard at the captive’s shoulder was already steering him away, grumbling about taking no more questions.

I watched the video several more times. His accent was different than mine, pure Brahmese without the old Terran dialect that Mag had drummed into my head, but the pitch and timbre of his voice was almost precisely the same. The longer I looked, the more minor differences in our appearance I spotted, a scar here and there, a freckle out of place, but nothing significant.

_ ‘I’m Cleo Walsh with Zeta-8 News and I have one last question. You are something of a folk hero, Mr. Nureyev, a symbol of hope and resistance to the downtrodden of Brahma, do you have anything to say to them?’ _

_ ‘The Angel of Brahma will fly them safely home.’ _

“Juno,” I said, reaching out and shaking his shoulder, a decision crystallizing into something leaden and daunting in my chest, “Juno, love, wake up.”


	2. Brahma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter:  
> authoritarian governing/the inherent mortal peril of being on Brahma  
> mild smut (also a note of warning, for once I'm not writing Nureyev as trans)

Brahma was just about the only spot in the galaxy I hadn’t expected to ever see. So, I’d also never expected to have to do all the talking as we went through their rigorous customs, a job that was Nureyev’s by default, on account of my pokerface’s miserable track record. But especially with his lookalike plastered all over the local newstreams, he had to keep a low profile. His face was covered at the moment in disturbingly believable wrinkles  _ —  _ courtesy of Rita, some online tutorials, and our pooled cosmetic resources  _ — _ but we couldn’t risk his distinctive voice giving him away. So, heart racing like a sewer rabbit hopped up on neo-methamphetamines, I presented the dummy documents for Mr. and Mrs. Holm that Nureyev had made up, gave the rote answers he’d made me memorize, and held my breath practically until we were out on the street.

“Masterfully done, my love.” Nureyev murmured quietly, his hand slipping into mine. It was clammy with sweat. It made sense for him to be nervous, of course it did, but that didn’t mean it didn’t put me on edge.

“Yeah, well, I learned from the best,” I said, squeezing his hand in a way I hoped was reassuring, “Now where the hell are we going, Ulysses?”

“The hostel is a short walk that way,” Nureyev said, pointing to the right with his free hand. He firmly guided me under the overhanging eaves of a nearby building, so close to the wall that my sleeve brushed the rough bricks, “You’ll want to keep out of the open, Minerva, my love.”

“Isn’t that suspicious?” I asked softly, peering past the building’s gutters to get a glimpse of the floating city itself, shiny glinting chrome cushioned in the clouds like a ring in a velvet box.

_ “No, _ ” he said, sharply nudging me in the ribs with an elbow, “Everyone does so.”

I looked around and noticed that it was true. There was plenty of action on the street, people moving between buildings washed in nice warm tones, between merchants selling fruits and pastries I’d never seen before, scraps of cars and computers I couldn’t identify if my life depended on it. They were acting more or less like people anyplace else; talking, laughing, hurrying, arguing, kissing, or frowning to themselves, lost in thought. There were skinny stray dogs and cats, though they didn’t seem to have nearly enough eyes and ears, and even skinnier stray kids with bare, dirty feet. But they all kept close to the buildings, darting quickly in the spaces where no roof offered protection from the threat that loomed above, “Oh.” I said, feeling a little queasy, “Sorry.”

Nureyev’s eyes gleamed at me over the rim of his dark-tinted glasses, “It’s alright, dear,” he said, “It’s only a matter of blending in. The aluminum and plaster polymer that most of these roofs are made of would fare no better than paper against the Guardian Angel System.”

“Right,” I said, with a dry laugh, “Well, that’s comforting at least.”

“ _...no way are they going to execute him!” _ a pair of young men pushed by us, “ _ He’s unstoppable!” _

_ “When trouble arises, he disappears.” _ the other young man agreed confidently, with a dramatic flourish.

_ “And then we’ll be ready, we’ll…” _

Nureyev’s hand had tightened like a vice around my own, and he swore under his breath, a word I didn’t recognize, “You good?” I asked.

“Quite,” he said tightly, unconvincingly, “I will be better when we are done here and back aboard our ship.” I opened my mouth to counter, but he pointed out, “This is our place.”

The hostel was an invitingly nondescript building, the walls painted a fading shade of russet, a sign over the door declaring the name in the pretty and meaningless-to-me curls of the old Brahmese alphabet. We walked inside and I could feel some of the tension drop from Nureyev’s tall frame just at being away from the direct view of the sky. The room we were in was essentially a living room, and I shifted my weight a little uneasily at the sense of intruding. Nureyev rang a small bell that had been left out on the table, as my attention was pulled to the newstream playing on a small cube-shaped monitor across from a scruffy couch.

The guy sure was a dead ringer for Nureyev, and it felt weirdly like a punch in the chest. Right from our first meeting, he’d always struck me as absolutely one-of-a-kind. How could there just be  _ another one _ floating around among the stars? We’d discussed it at length with Rita over the past day as we sped towards Brahma, speculating that the genetic testing had to be fake, that he was probably just some skinny stooge who had been put through a hell of a lot of plastic surgery and prosthetics. I don’t know if any of us was convinced. 

The volume was turned low and that was a small mercy; it was  _ too  _ eerie hearing his voice. I’d watched the clips with Nureyev, of course, as he teetered on the precipice of panic in our bed, but I didn’t tell him the way they made my skin crawl. That voice… that voice  _ was his _ and it knew my secrets, it sighed my name in ecstasy, it had haunted me for ages before I had ever managed to have a proper grown-up conversation with it. But the man wielding it on the streams was  _ not quite right _ and I didn’t trust him with that voice or that face that were more precious to me than anything.

“How can I help you?” a woman was asking. 

I turned to face her, finding her to be about ten years younger than me, with short hair and a strong build that I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of in a fight. She was smiling at me pleasantly though and Nureyev squeezed my hand, reminding me that I had to do the talking, “Oh, uh, hi,” I stammered out, “My husband and I called to reserve a room?”

“What’s the name?” she asked, peering at a schedule thingy made of  _ paper. _

“Um, Holm,” I said, “I’m Minerva Holm, my hubby here’s Ulysses.”

“That checks out,” the woman confided, “You’re the only reservation we’ve got all month.”

“Oh!” I said with a nervous chuckle, “Really? But this place is so… lovely.” 

She arched an eyebrow at me. I  _ really _ couldn’t sell flattery like Nureyev could, “Thanks, yeah, I try to keep it nice,” she shrugged, “But no amount of scented candles and pillow mints is gonna change the fact it’s on  _ Brahma _ .”

“Right,” I said, “Not a lotta tourism?”

“Most tourists want to go home in a souvenir t-shirt, not in a bag of ashes.”

“Right,” I said again, “Right, we’re, uh, actually here on business.”

“Don’t care why you’re here,” the woman said with a genuine smile, “You’re paying my bills. I’m Eleanor Kharkiva, by the way.” she extended a hand for a handshake.

I took her hand, and as I did, recognized the mark on her forearm. It was a tattoo of a simplified face, tapered jaw, glasses, dark hair with a stray lock in the front. A face I’d know anywhere. I shook her hand and asked as evenly as I could, “Which way to our room?”

She handed me an analog key and directed us down the hall, offered help with our bags which I declined. It wasn’t until I’d locked the door behind us that I heaved a sigh. It was a small suite, a little threadbare but very comfortable, with its own cramped bathroom and a big bed, complete with aforementioned pillow mints. Nureyev perched at the edge of the bed, shoulders sagging, letting out a sigh to rival mine. I sat beside him and took his hand again, “These people,” he said, voice shorn, “They think I’m a  _ hero _ , Juno.” Under the fake wrinkles, he looked haunted and pale.

“I know, it stinks for them,” I said, tilting my head to look up at him cheekily. His brow furrowed, the wrinkles tripling, “They have no idea what a  _ badass _ you actually are.”

It surprised a laugh out of him, and I was grateful for the sound, musical and absolutely grounding. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, “Thank you for coming with me, love.” he murmured against my skin.

“Like I would have let you do this  _ alone _ ?” I pointed out, “Yeah, no way.”

“Indeed, how would I have made it through the spaceport and the hostel lobby,” he teased, “Without the aid of your silver tongue?”

I leaned up and covered his lips with mine, pleasure bubbling warmly in my gut at how  _ right _ his kiss was, silken and familiar and eager. No matter where we were, no matter how much danger we were in, I was home when Nureyev’s lips were on mine. 

I could blame it on the tension of the day we’d had, I could blame it on the adrenaline still flowing through our veins. This  _ did _ seem to happen to us whenever we found ourselves somewhere safe after sneaking around. I could also blame it on the fact that we were totally, just  _ stupidly _ smitten with each other. But one kiss turned into ten, each more heated and hungry than the last, each curl of our tongues a reminder that we were still very much alive and we had each other. And dammit, just those two facts were  _ so much _ . 

When I couldn’t take his goddamn patience anymore, I broke the kiss and slid off his lap, turning my attention instead to the erection I’d been rubbing my ass against for the last few minutes. Nureyev gave a small gasp when I freed him from his pants, and a delicious little groan when I got my lips around him, showing him just what my silver tongue was good for, even if it couldn’t smoothtalk half so well as his. 

He didn’t take long to come, —  _ beautiful _ , like everything he did,  _ so goddamn beautiful _ it made my heart hurt — his hands fisting in my hair before gripping me under the arms and dragging me up onto the bed. He pushed my pants aside and pumped me rough and fast like he knew I wanted it, so observant and clever that he could probably deduce just what I needed from the pitch of my sigh or the glint in my eye. He’d certainly had enough practice to study me, to perfect the art of making me go absolutely to pieces. His rough touch was in decadent contrast to the lavish praise he whispered in my ear, “Juno, my goddess,” his breath washed tantalizingly over my ear and neck, “You are more breathtaking than all the wonders of the galaxy, I love you, I love to see you like this, let me see how beautifully you fall apart for me.”

I can’t speak to how it  _ looked _ , but it sure as shit  _ felt _ beautiful. Everything Nureyev did felt beautiful; everything Nureyev  _ was _ was beautiful to me. I really didn’t have his way with words, or I might have told him so, curled close together in the cooling afterglow haze. Instead I kissed a bead of sweat from the hollow of his throat and asked, “So, what Brahmese delicacy have you spent the last twenty-two years craving?”

Maybe it was the right thing to say after all, because he gave a wonderful full laugh and squeezed me tighter, “Frog dumplings, it is, my goddess.”


	3. New Kinshasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs for chapter:  
> allusion to execution  
> discussion of hella corruption  
> the bois butting heads :(

“So,” Juno asked, fiddling with the waist sash of his sophisticated bottle green dress, “Is this just more of Brahma’s misleading name thing?”

I gave him a bemused smile, “What _‘misleading name thing_ ’ would that be?”

Juno gave me one of his beloved long-suffering eyerolls, “Well, it’s called a ‘guardian angel’, but it doesn’t _guard_ you, it _shoots_ you,” he elucidated with his signature bluntness, “And for dinner last night we had _frog dumplings_ , which are actually just full of _cheese—_ ”

“We’ve been over that, Juno,” we were quite alone on the shuttle to New Kinshasa, so I allowed myself the use of his name. I adored him with every fiber of my being, but to be perfectly frank, he was getting on my last nerve at the moment and the whole lot of them were frayed to begin with, “They bounce like hopping frogs when they are fried correctly.”

“Sure, yeah, it’s still dumb,” Juno brushed off, “ _And_ misleading.”

I shrugged and adjusted my grip on the handrail, standing to avoid creasing my suit in a manner unbefitting of the New Kinshasan elite with whom I needed to blend in, “Your point, dear heart?” 

“This Nureyev clone,” he said, “He’s some place called ‘death row’, yeah?” I nodded stiffly, jaw firmly clenched shut, “Sooo is that like the dumplings and it’s actually _not frog_ , it’s just where they, I dunno, rehabilitate you and ease you back into society?”

The note of shaky optimism in my lady’s voice drew a fond laugh from me, tense though I was, “What a quaint and charming notion, my love,” he frowned, “Believe me, my dear, I wish that were the case. But I’m afraid death row is precisely as it sounds, a place where they keep you before you are put to death.”

Juno blew out a low whistle and seemed to mull that over, while I glared at a bit of the siding where someone has scraped the phrase ‘ _PN is always among us’_ . It surprised and troubled and, yes, _encouraged_ me that the trappings of rebellion had even spread to a New Kinshasan vessel like the shuttle, “Doesn’t he get, like, ya know, a trial?”

I chuckled, “I don’t mean to condescend, Juno, but that’s _adorable_.”

Juno’s mouth scrunched into a surly shape, “And here I thought Mars was corrupt…”

“And it is,” I replied, “Corruption, like most qualities innate of human civilization, is relative.”

“I guess so.” Juno conceded, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs, “It’s just _unfair_.”

My word, but I _did_ love him, “Extremely,” I agreed, taking on the mantle of devil’s advocate to point out, “But some would say that a farcical trial with one of Hyperion City’s kangaroo courts is a worse fate than a clean and dignified execution.”

Juna scowled at that, “I mean, sure, I guess _some_ would say a lotta stuff, Ulysses, but isn’t that kinda extreme?”

I nodded emphatically, “Now you’re beginning to get at the heart of it,” he looked unconvinced, “Of course it’s extreme, Juno, the entire infrastructure of this planet is _extreme_. Therein lies the problem.”

“Well, yeah, Mars—”

“Brahma is _not_ Mars, Juno, and that is the fact of the matter,” I interrupted, agitation and anticipation stoking sparks from the cool old embers of my Brahmese patriotism, “One simply cannot compare Brahma’s problems to those of Mars. For all its corruption and shortcomings, your beloved Mars has _always_ been a crucial Solar planet, the very first to be terraformed and colonized. Brahma, for all its abiding beauty and tenacity, has _never_ been deemed important, least of all since fighting on the losing side of the war! You must understand that the rules are _different_ here; these lives are worth less.”

“You don’t believe that.” Juno countered, steadfast.

“Of course, _I_ don’t believe it!” I surprised myself, my words snapping sharp as a whip, “You know _exactly_ how much these lives are worth to me!”

Juno flinched and looked away, “Right, of course. Yeah.” A moment passed wherein I scolded myself in my head for lashing out at Juno, who had shown me nothing but patience and loyalty in this whole absurd mission. He continued to look off to the side and chew the inside of his cheek, finally saying a bit gruffly, “I’m sorry, N- Ulysses.” Even alone on a shuttle, it was best not to call me by my name, and he protected me from that risk.

I did not, _could never_ , deserve a lady such as him, “There is no need to apologize.” I said, as the shuttle docked into New Kinshasa and the door opened with a pneumatic hiss, “Just be quiet, stay close, and follow my lead.”

Juno nodded and got to his feet, following me to the door. I came to a halt just before passing through it and turned to face him. His eye met mine, a little wary but unswayed. He raised one eyebrow in question and I mustered an encouraging smile for him, “I love you.” I said, barely louder than a whisper.

Some of the tension eased from Juno’s expression and I was rewarded with a smile, fleeting though it was, “I love you, too,” he said, rising to the tips of his toes to drop a kiss at the corner of my lips, then whispered, “Let’s go figure out the best way to fuck up a corrupt government building.”

I swooned and didn’t bother to conceal it, “You minx, you know just the way to my heart.” I praised.

We exited the shuttle and walked up a curving ramp and then, why, there we were. It wasn’t much changed over the past twenty-two years. Brahma had its scrappy, ramshackle charm, but New Kinshasa was positively _picturesque._ The architecture was cohesive, not identical from one building to another but giving the impression that it had all been drawn by the same artist’s hand, with the gabled roofs and arched doors in common, the colored glass of the windows brimming invitingly with warm light. A fountain tinkled nearby, catching the eye of the Mars-born lady at my side, who would perhaps never learn to take for the granted the easy access to water and green things that his red planet lacked.

There were green things aplenty here, lush lawns and deciduous trees frothing over with fecund leaves. There were window-boxes beneath windows, spilling over with flowers and herbs. There were petals and dandelion seeds wafting along spellbindingly on the cool, clean breeze, “Whoa…” Juno muttered softly beside me, “Is this place for real?”

“That would depend heavily upon your definition of ‘real’, my love.” I said. 

Juno opened his mouth to respond when I heard a crackle in my earpiece, and judging by his expression, he heard the same, “I thought you two were done flirtin’, but if ya wanna take a romantic stroll along the _promenaaaade_ , I can always go watch anotha episode of _Pirates on Ninja Planet_ and check back in when yer all done making googly eyes at each otha.”

“Rita, dear,” I said, “Don’t be silly. You know I’m never done, as you say, making _googly_ eyes at our detective.”

“Don’tchoo go coverin’ for him, Mistah Nureyev,” Rita scolded, “Mistah Steel might only have the one eye to get googly with, but he gets _reeeal_ googly with it, ‘specially when you wear one-a your pretty see-through thingies.”

I smirked at Juno, admiring the slight flush of his cheeks, “Hm, duly noted, Rita, thank you.”

“We’re not here to make googly eyes, Rita,” Juno grumbled, “We’re here to case this screwed up place, got it?”

“Oh, I got it, boss,” Rita assured, a note of patronizing affection in her voice, “You’re almost there now.”

“Are we truly?” I asked, looking around with a frown at the charming square we had just entered. There was a lawn at the center lined with flowering shrubs, complete with a small fish pond and a gazebo, and on one side a column of sweet row-houses, on the other side a school, “I don’t see it.”

“Really? It’s a big long thing to your left sorta.”

The row-houses, then. I chuckled, “It would seem your naming criticism may hold some water after all, love,” I said to Juno, “There’s the ‘row’.”

“They made it a pun?” Juno wrinkled his nose, “And they couldn’t even have the decency to make it a _good_ pun?”

“Alright, so you’re probably seein’ a whole buncha doors on that thing,” Rita went on to explain, “But they ain’t real doors, they’re just for show. You’re gonna hafta go around the far side of the building and tell me whatcha see.”

I had learned long ago not to underestimate Rita or waste her time, so Juno and I walked as briskly as we could around the corner of the building without drawing attention to ourselves, “There’s not a heck of a lot over here, Rita,” Juno relayed to her, “There’s a tree, some weirdly clean trash cans, and that’s about it.”

“Hrrm,” Rita mumbled thoughtfully, “What’s the wall look like? Is it made of more than one sorta stuff?”

“It appears to be mostly brick and mortar construction,” I told her, “Apart from a portion by the trash cans that appears to be metallic.”

“There’s ya door, boys,” Rita preened, “Easy peasy ramen cheesy.”

“I’ll keep watch,” Juno offered, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it, “You go investigate.”

I swallowed a quip about role reversal and went to investigate the incongruous bit of wall. I moved the trash cans aside as silently as possible, a lockpad and a doorhandle coming into view, “There we are...” I said and told Rita what I saw.

I scanned the lockpad with my comms and sent the reading to Rita and was moving the trashcans back into place when Juno cleared his throat loudly and I hurried to his side. On the far corner of the square, a woman was walking a dog on a leash, a spoiled four-eyed thing that barely resembled the dogs starving on the streets below. Juno linked his arm with mine and we walked away from the clean, unassuming alleyway, “Oh, this is nothin’,” Rita scoffed in our ears, “I’ll bust this baby wide open way before tonight.”

“Marvelous, Rita,” I said, “I never once doubted you.”

“Pfft, why wouldja?” She asked. Juno chuckled beside me with a shrug of agreement. I could not come up with a single reason why I might.


	4. Death Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter:  
> walking into a trap  
> canon-typical threatening, danger, threat of violence, etc

Nureyev put in the security code Rita fed him via comms, and the doorhandle gave under his gloved hand. He slipped in and I followed, and when the door sealed behind me with a soft click, it didn’t do wonders for my suspicious streak, “Uh, Ulysses,” I whispered, “What if this is a trap?”

“Why, then we’ll just have to escape it, won’t we?” Nureyev whispered back with a cocky grin, but I knew him well enough to know it was an act. Being here had him all kinds of out of sorts, not that I could blame him.

“Right,” I grumbled, “Why didn’t I think of that…”

“Don’t worry, Mistah Steel,” Rita offered in my earpiece, “When have I ever let you walk into a trap?” I opened my mouth, about twenty examples waiting on my tongue, but she didn’t let me get a word in, “Besides, the security in this place is super duper lax and you and Mistah Nureyev are both real good at bein’ sneaky, or at least  _ he’s _ real good at being sneaky, and you’re—”

“What was that about lax security?” I interrupted, following Nureyev’s lead as he crept down the hall. Industrial prison hallways were the same just about everywhere, and New Kinshasa’s ‘death row’ was no exception. Same blank walls, same posters about restrictions, same little guard booth beside a gate.

“Yeah, boss, there’s only a couple-a guards walking around, and the plasma turrets I already disabled,” she explained, “You’d think there’d be more standin’ between the fancy-shmancy people that live up there and the dangerous ones who’ve committed really bad treason stuff,” she tittered nervously, “No offense, Mistah Nureyev.”

“None taken, dear.”

“You  _ would _ think there’d be more than that,” I said, “Like… why isn’t there someone at this checkpoint?”

“That  _ is  _ peculiar…” Nureyev conceded. He met my gaze, and I could tell that he was seeing the same thing I was; if this _ wasn’t _ a trap, why the hell did it look so much like one? But there was something else there, a manic brightness in his eyes that reminded me acutely of the boy I’d seen in his memory, the boy who had become a symbol of rebellion, “But why look a gift hovercycle in the hood, hm? We best just get what we came for and leave before these security officers remember to do their job.”

“Fine,” I said, “But keep your guard up.”

“I always do, my love.” Nureyev said, shooting me a small private smile that offered some comfort, a glimpse to remind me that  _ no _ , in fact there  _ were _ times when he let his guard down, when it was just us, and the sooner we got this over with, the sooner we could get back to our lives.

“Rita, keep an eye on those security feeds and tell us  _ the instant _ you see a guard so much as pick their nose,” I ordered, as Rita remotely disabled the plasma gate and I followed Nureyev through, “And look for alternate exits. If this goes pear-shaped, we might not be able to get out this way.”

“Will do, boss,” Rita chirped, “Though I don’t see how nose-picking’s got anything to do with busting out Mistah Nureyev’s lookalike fella.”

“I don’t like this...” I muttered as we crept down a hallway, “I don’t  _ like _ this…” I muttered again as, per Rita’s instructions, we crept up a stairwell, “I  _ don’t _ like this…” I muttered again as we crept down a hallway, most doors unlabeled apart from a few that bore people’s names.

“Yes, love, you’ve made that sentiment quite clear,” Nureyev snipped, “Believe it or not, I’m less than ecstatic to be here, myself.”

“You’re gettin’ close now.” Rita said in our ears. And sure enough, there it was, as obvious as a lump of simcheese on a mousetrap; a door and beside it Peter Nureyev’s name. It took all of the restraint I could muster not to voice again my complete goddamn dislike of everything about this. I  _ hated _ traps.

Nureyev slipped a plasmapick from his sleeve and made short work of the lock, giving me an uneasy smile when it flashed green way too easily, “What do you say, love?” he asked, and I loved him for it. Because I could see the serious question in his eyes, and I could see that if I asked him to turn back and forget this right now, he would. And maybe that was part of why I had to say yes. I nodded, Peter pushed open the door and we both slipped inside.

And there, lying on a narrow cot in a blue jumpsuit, was Peter Nureyev. His lower lip had split and he had a black eye, his hair was turning grey on the sides and looked like it was craving some shampoo, and he had fallen asleep with his glasses on and they were crooked. I looked between the rumpled man in the bed and the gorgeous man beside me and my world tilted a little off-kilter, “Whoa…” I said, involuntarily.

At the sound, the man in the cot startled awake, scrambling into a sitting position and shoving his glasses back into place, “Holy hell,” he said, in the weird unpolished baritone that was and wasn’t  _ my  _ Nureyev’s voice at the same time, his dark eyes glued to Nureyev and wide as they could get, “You  _ came _ .”

“Get up,” Nureyev instructed, “We need to go before the window of opportunity closes.”

“Sorry,” the man on the bed shook his head and he  _ looked _ sorry, and he looked a little less like  _ my _ Nureyev when he frowned like that. And then I noticed his hand, and the button beside the bed, and cursed myself that I’d been too distracted by looking at him to notice something as obvious as a red goddamn panic button. The alarm started blaring and the man’s expression crumpled into something pathetic and contrite, “I’m so,  _ so _ sorry.”

I crossed the tiny cell and grabbed his arm, hoisting him to his feet, “I  _ knew _ it was a goddamn trap.” I remarked to Nureyev.

“W-what are you doing?” the man who was not Nureyev asked, trying ineffectually to pull free from my grip on his arm.

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’re  _ not _ doing,” I said, as Nureyev peeked out the door and nodded back at me, “We’re sure as shit not waiting around for the guards to swarm this place.”

“That’s gonna be  _ juuust _ about any second now, Mistah Steel, just by the way.” Rita’s voice tittered tensely in my ear.

I followed Nureyev into the hall, but not-Nureyev dug his heels in, “No,” he whined, in a very un-Nureyev tone, “I mean, what are you gonna do to  _ me?  _ ” 

“Hurry up, my love,” Nureyev urged, “You heard Rita, there’s no time to waste.”

“ _ C’mon _ , asshole,” I dragged the man along with me, “We’re not gonna leave you here to get executed.”

The man gave a nervous laugh that reminded me unsettlingly of Duke Rose, “It’s not  _ me _ they want to execute!” he insisted.

I turned and glowered up at him, tightening my grip on his arm, “Yeah, well, there’s no way in  _ hell  _ I'm letting them execute  _ him _ ,” I jerked my head at Nureyev, “And  _ you, _ Mr. Lookalike, are his understudy.” The man’s cheeks flushed and he looked away, and he looked  _ so much _ like Nureyev that I almost felt bad for threatening him.

The alarms went silent, “Mistah Steel, you boys really gotta hustle,” Rita scolded, “I shut off the alarm, but it’s too late to matter, there’s guards that’ll be outside real soon, and I can get you outta there but—”

“Just leave him, Juno.” 

My eye shot to Nureyev, trying to gauge the tension in his body, the uncharacteristically reckless lapse in our aliases, “Seriously, Nureyev? You think they’ll go easy on him after their trap  _ fails? ”  _ Nureyev’s mouth was a flat line, “Now that they’ve got everyone juiced up for an execution?”

Something between a groan and a growl escaped Nureyev and he grabbed not-Nureyev’s other arm, “ _ Fine _ ,” he said, “But we haven’t got the luxury of time,” not-Nureyev sucked in a breath and I saw Nureyev’s knife pressed threateningly to his double’s ribs, “So you might consider keeping up.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded, and began walking on his own.

“Which way, Rita?” I asked.

“Keep goin’ that way ‘til ya get to a set of emergency stairs, and then take those. There’s a window one floor up you should be able to use, with a tree you can climb down,” I groaned but she ignored it, adding, “And make it  _ snappy _ , boss, the guards are goin’ in the trashcan entrance you used to get in!”

I swore under my breath and we walked faster, not-Nureyev hurrying to keep pace and getting no answer when he asked, “Who’s Rita?”

We made it up the emergency stairs no problem, and I shot the window open, grateful to find that the second floor wasn’t really all that high up, and the tree was a big one, with thick branches easy enough to crawl along and dense foliage to hide in, “There are too many of them in the street,” Nureyev hissed, peering down through the leaves, “We’ll have to wait a moment here, and hopefully we’ll get an opening once they’re all inside the building. I’ll steal one of the cars on the street if I can at that time,” he turned back to me and not-Nureyev, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they’d slipped and pinning not-Nureyev with a sharp, searching look, “You are not Peter Nureyev. Who are you?”

The man was perched close enough to me on the branch that I could hear the  _ gulp _ as he swallowed, before answering, “I’m j-just someone unlucky enough to share your distinctive good looks.”

The uneasiness and tension that had been simmering away in my gut flared hot and my grip on his arm became bruisingly tight, “ _ Don’t _ fucking flirt with him.” I gritted out in warning. 

The man surprised me by making an actual  _ gagging _ sound, “ _ Ew,  _ I’m  _ not _ flirting with him!” he insisted, and unfeigned offense flashed in his eyes. That was… odd. 

Nureyev chuckled lightly, “There’s no need to sound quite  _ so  _ disgusted,” the man sucked in a breath as he felt a cold blade against his neck, “Now, answer the question. Who are you?”

“S-Simon… Walsh.” he stammered, and Nureyev and I exchanged a wordless glance. The man swallowed again and whimpered when the motion pushed the knife against his skin a little more tightly, “It,” he said, “It got quiet.”

“Rita?” I asked, as Nureyev pushed some leaves aside to look out, his other hand keeping the knife to Walsh’s throat.

“The last guy is about to go in, just one— yeah, you’re good to go.”

We climbed down as quickly as we could, not that quick, given that we couldn’t let Walsh run off. Nureyev turned to me, “I’m getting a car. If he tries anything, shoot him.” I grimaced but nodded, my blaster pressed to Walsh’s back as Peter slipped away to steal a car. I glared at him sideways as we waited, and tried to decide if Simon Walsh was his real name. Walsh was the same name as the interviewer from that first bit of video after the news had first broken. Was it a coincidence? My gut said no.


	5. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> canon-typical danger  
> discussion of death, grief  
> implied reference to grooming  
> mild dissociation, self-doubt, angst, guilt

I pulled the stolen car — no Ruby 7, but nothing to sneeze at — as close as I dared to the tree where Juno and my doppelganger lurked in the shadow cast by the whimsical lavender streetlamps of New Kinshasa. Juno’s eye met mine through the windshield and the flicker of a tense smile teased his lips before he started towards me with the mysterious Simon Walsh at gunpoint.

Horror shot through me — stopping my heart, tugging a cry from my throat — when Walsh attempted to twist out of Juno’s hold, mouth wide with a shout I faintly heard even inside the car. Juno subdued him easily enough, knocking the back of his skull with the base of his blaster, and throwing the wriggling man over his shoulder in an ungainly carry, before rushing in my direction. I threw the back door open and as soon as the two men tumbled inside, I pressed the pedal to the floor, taking off just as guards spilled into the square to investigate the shout.

“I believe I told you to  _ shoot  _ him?” I said, voice strained, meeting Juno’s eye in the rearview mirror as he pulled the door shut.

“Don’t worry, I might,” Juno reassured me, breathing hard, pressing the barrel of his blaster to Walsh’s temple, “Let’s try this again. Who are you  _ really? _ ”

“W-what—?” the man sounded addled, but Juno was not fooled. I guided the car into the stream of traffic down from New Kinshasa and hoped we might blend in long enough to make it to Brahma and ditch the vehicle. Nevertheless, it was difficult to take my eyes off of Juno, glaring the man down and radiating the fierce righteousness that I had found irresistible from our very first meeting.

“What is your real name?” He demanded.

“S-Simon,” the man said, “...Simon… Nureyev.”

My eyebrows twitched up automatically. I thought I felt a distant recognition stirring somewhere, buried deep. It was too subtle, too faint; I may have been imagining it. Juno did not know I felt a thing, and was undeterred, growling out, “Last fucking chance, pal, how about ya make it count. I want  _ the truth. _ ”

“I’m Simon Nureyev. I  _ am _ ! That, that  _ is  _ the truth, I swear!” the man insisted in a breaking voice, babbling on, “My parents, Stephen and Anita Nureyev, they, I can barely remember them.”

“What a  _ convenient _ case of amnesia.” Juno remarked.

“Peter,” the man said, and it sent a pang through my heart as only my given name could, even slurred on the desperate tongue of this stranger with my face, “Peter is my brother,” he said, “My younger brother… though he seems to’ve gotten the lion’s share of the amnesia.”

A brother? I didn’t have a brother. Surely… although… but…

Though the man’s words had given me pause, setting in motion a series of questions cascading like an avalanche, Juno scoffed and his voice took on a bitter sharpness, “If he’s your brother, why the  _ hell  _ are you trying to get him killed?” Ah, of course. My poor Juno, brothers were an issue of sensitivity for him, particularly in regards to their mortality. If only this car  _ were _ the Ruby 7 and could get us to safety without my guidance, I would have liked more than anything to offer him more support in this harrowing interrogation.

“I-I—”

“Don’t bother denying it,” Juno spat, “You played your part as bait, and then you tried to blow our cover before we got in the car!”

“Mayhaps,” I offered coolly, sounding far calmer than I was in truth, “Our companion had more than a family reunion in mind.”

Something like a moan escaped the man who claimed to be my brother, “I- I,  _ please _ , I didn’t have a  _ choice _ .” His eyes sought mine in the mirror and I failed in my attempts to ignore them, “Honestly, Peter, I  _ swear _ , I never thought you’d actually come.”

Something about the way he said my name chipped at my doubts. I’d met many gifted liars in my tenure as a nameless thief, and many very convincing actors. But the way this man — Simon, if that really could be his name — said _Peter_ … I tore my eyes from his to spare a glance at Juno, and I saw that he had heard it, too. Simon said it as one says a name of a long-lost part of one's own self, the way that the name ‘Mag’ fell from my lips, and the name ‘Benzaiten’ from Juno’s. He may be lying, but if he was, it wasn’t about that. At any rate, I found myself considering that perhaps, _possibly_ , an aptitude for lying ran in the family.

“I don’t remember you.” I said plainly, and though my eyes had slid to the other cars around us, I could sense the way that Simon’s shoulders had fallen.

“I figured,” he said, defeatedly, “And I can’t hold that against you. You were small when Mag took you away.”

“You…” I cleared my tightening throat, “You knew Mag?”

“Yeah, we… after our parents died, he noticed us on the street. He’d share food with us when he could, gained our trust,” Simon scoffed out a baleful laugh, “Looking back, he was looking for a protégé, or, or a  _ son _ , or something. You… you’re almost three years younger than me, and I guess a four-year-old suited him better than a seven-year-old, so you won.”

Juno snorted at that, and I was grateful for the loyalty, for how vocal he’d always been in his disapproval of Mag. I could practically hear him thinking disdainfully how easy it must have been for Mag to get a four-year-old to believe anything he was taught, “Our parents,” I said, the words weighing odd and unfamiliar on my tongue, “What happened to them?”

“What do you think happened to them, Peter?” Simon asked wearily, “You and I were hungry, they tried to steal some food in full view of the Guardian Angel System.  _ Bam!  _ ” his voice was bleak, “It did what it does and Brahma gained two more orphans.”

What could I say to that? I wished that I could remember it, but there was nothing there. As I had done a million times, I tried to remember them, conjuring only insubstantial silhouettes, a tall man, a woman with a laugh like a bell. The kind of recollection one cannot trust, just as likely a product of my imagination as my memory. Queasiness swirled in my stomach as I parked the car in a dodgy alley near where Juno and I were staying. Simon’s story wasn’t all that different from the lie Mag had fed me as I grew up, about my heroic father being shot down, only far less noble. They weren’t heroes or revolutionaries, just poor and hungry and at their wits’ end. Maybe I had remembered it a little once, maybe it had made it easier for Mag to mislead me.

How could I have forgotten? I should never have forgotten...

As if from a great distance, I heard Rita comment on what a sad and confusing story it was; heard Juno confirm to her that we had gotten away and would make a quick stop at the hostel before rendezvousing with her and making our escape.

I wasn’t sure when I had climbed woodenly out of the car, but now Juno was in front of me, still holding his gun rather limply against Simon’s head, his other hand gripping my shoulder and pulling me back to my body, “Nureyev,” he said, and two heads turned to him, “ _ Peter _ ,” he amended awkwardly, “Are you okay?”

I met his eye, blue and bright and melting with concern, and the breath filled my chest a little easier, “Yes,” I lied, “Let’s go. It is unwise to remain out in the open.”

It was late and the streets were empty, and I was grateful for the bracing effect of the cool air against my face. We walked with Simon between us, a knife and a blaster trained on him. I couldn’t help noticing that he and I walked at the same pace, our strides spaced just the same. That didn’t prove anything, of course, and yet…

What reason was there to believe that this man  _ wasn’t _ my brother? He knew things he ought not to know, and now that I’d seen him and spoken face-to-face, the resemblance was more than any plastic surgery could achieve. There were mannerisms and inflections that, if not innate, he could only have learned from observing me at length which could not be possible. I found myself beginning to believe it.

Or perhaps it was that I  _ wanted _ to believe it?

The lobby of the hostel was dark and empty, and we made it to our room without having to explain to any curious locals why and how our party included not one, but  _ two _ of the infamous Peter Nureyev. I watched from what felt like a great distance as Juno firmly directed Simon to sit against the wall, a spot which placed him far enough from both the door and the window that he could not escape. We had left our bags packed on the bed, ready for a quick getaway, a change of clothes already set out for each of us, to decrease the chances that we be recognized with any surveillance footage of our foray to New Kinshasa. Juno yanked off his shoes and began shedding his green dress, and I stiffly shrugged out of my jacket.

“What are you doing?” Simon asked, one hand investigating the lump Juno had left on the back of his head.

“Changing our clothes.” Juno bit out testily. I tried to catch his eye, but he pretended not to notice the attempt. I frowned inwardly as I slipped loose my tie. Clearly the matter of brothers had struck a nerve, and clear too, we would not be discussing or acknowledging it quite yet.

“No, I mean… why?” Simon asked, voice quavering slightly, “Why are you changing? Wh-what’s the plan?”

Juno scoffed, “The plan is to get the hell outta dodge.”

My stomach flipped at Juno’s words. It was the plan we had agreed on together and yet… I could not ignore the shame that welled in me like a great tide. Simon’s eyes widened and then narrowed, attaching to mine, “ _ What? _ You can’t  _ run away!”  _ he demanded, “You… you’re the Angel of Brahma, Peter! Aren’t you here to finish what you started?”

I shook my head sharply, once, “I am here so that an innocent man would not pay for my crimes,  _ not  _ to play at being a hero.” As I shed my shirt and picked up the new one, I said, as much a firm reminder to myself as an explanation to him, “I learned a crucial lesson all those long years ago, I am no hero—”

“But you _ are!” _ Simon insisted, heat and faith flashing in his eyes. This man may have resembled me, but that brightness in his eyes reminded me of Juno and it pierced like a knife through the layers of pragmatism I had piled on over the years like armor, “You’re a hero to  _ so  _ many people— you’re  _ my  _ hero!”

Guilt rose in me but I did all I could to shove it away, “Do get your story straight, I thought I was your brother.” I remarked coolly.

“Who says your brother can’t be your hero?” Simon countered and beside the bed, Juno fumbled his belt, dropping it with a distracting clatter of the buckle.

“Excuse me, I’m going to freshen up, I’ll be quick.” I said, the words sliding together a little as I rushed them out. Juno’s hand caught my wrist and on his face, a silent question. Was I okay? Did I need him or would I be alright alone? I offered the most reassuring smile I could muster and slipped into our bathroom, shutting the door. I leaned my hands against the sink and  _ tried _ to wrangle my spinning thoughts into something like order. 

I glared at my reflection, the man in the mirror was  _ not _ a hero. He had tried to be a hero once with disastrous results. Had achieved little more than killing his father and ruining a perfectly good name. He  _ could not _ be a hero… 

Could he?


	6. Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:
> 
> Benzaiten-related angst  
> reference to death and loss of eyesight

I stared hard at the bathroom door, torn between a powerful urge to follow Nureyev and the knowledge that I should respect his need for privacy. Not to mention, someone had to keep an eye on our hostage while Nureyev got his identity crisis reined in. I looked back at  _ Simon _ , found that his eyes were trained on the door to the bathroom, too. His expression was hard to read — or rather,  _ weird _ to read. It was not an expression I had seen on his brother’s all-but-identical face, but there was no mistaking the hurt there, the confusion, the wounded faith. 

From some cruel little corner of my brain, I wondered the question, had Nureyev made that face back in Hyperion City, waking up to find himself alone in an empty hotel room?

“Soooo,” Simon’s voice broke the tense silence that had fallen as I stuffed the clothes I’d worn to New Kinshasa into my bag, “How’d you two wind up together?”

“What,” I challenged coarsely, resistant to the idea of making smalltalk with this  _ interloper _ , “You think I care about your approval?”

Simon frowned and then surprised me by  _ laughing _ , “Oh, would you cool off? I’m just making conversation.”

“Well… don’t.” I said, forcing my lips to remain unsmiling. The truth was, seeing them side-by-side, listening to Simon talk, I couldn’t help but believe that they were brothers. It wasn’t just that they looked alike, they had that…  _ thing. _ Like they were stitched together from the same components, scooped from the same pot, plucked from the same tree. Whatever the hell metaphor, it all reminded me of the same thing, of the same person. 

After all, I’d been someone’s brother once. A lifetime ago. And his hero.

I’d never had the chance to tell him, but he’d been my hero, too.

“You don’t have to talk, but I’m going to,” Simon said, with a stubborn tilt of his chin that oddly reminded me of both Benten and Nureyev. All of my favorite people had always had a defiant streak in common, “I didn’t want to put Peter in danger, for him to get caught. I  _ love _ him. I didn’t think he’d come…”

“You tried to blow our cover.” I pointed out again, not allowing my resolve to soften, even if there was something weirdly  _ gooey _ about hearing someone else declare their love for Nureyev. 

Simon looked down at his knees, replying softly, “He’s not the only person I love.”

I recognized that tone, I’d heard it before. How many criminals had I cornered, first as a cop and then as a detective, and hell, as a thief too, only to get that same explanation; they were responsible for someone and that was worth breaking the rules and making some sacrifices. I opened my mouth to ask who it was, but Simon spoke again first.

“How did you and Peter meet?” he asked, flashing a sharp-toothed smile and holding up his hands, “ _ Not _ offering brotherly approval, I’m just curious.”

Again I had to bite back a smile. It fucking  _ figured _ he would be charming. Nureyev had often claimed that it was Mag who taught him to charm people, but I’d never bought it. A person could learn to be suave, adaptable, well-mannered, even funny, but true charisma like his had to be innate, “Oh, the usual way,” I explained dryly, “He posed as a secret agent in order to steal an ancient Martian artifact for a power-hungry anthropologist, and then we kept running away from and into each other until it stuck.” 

Simon cocked his head, grinning, as handsome as his brother but  _ so different _ , “Wow,” he said, “Romance isn’t dead.”

That time, I chuckled in spite of myself, “How about you?” I asked, as lightly as I could, not wanting to sound like a detective, “Got anybody special?”

Simon nodded wistfully, “There was my wife, Nao.”

The past tense and the grief in his clear, dark eyes said it all, “I’m sorry.” I said, honestly. 

Simon gave me a grateful look, “I— Sh-she died two years ago,” he explained, that tremble in his voice so different from his brother’s almost unflappable composure, “I… I miss her so much, but I’m alright, I just…” a nervous look crossed over his face and I watched him size me up, and make the choice to confide honestly, “I worry about our daughter, Delia.”

“Shit,” I said, the information dropping like lead in the pit of my stomach, “You have a  _ kid?” _

Nureyev had a  _ niece? _

“Not quite a kid anymore,” he explained with an affectionate, private smile, “She’s sixteen, and twice as smart as I am.” 

“Damn,” I said, “If you’re anything like Nur- Peter, then that must make her dangerously smart.”

“Believe me, she is,” Simon’s smile turned sad again, “She… Nao was always ill, and the pregnancy was… there were complications and it damaged Delia’s eyes. She’s had poor eyesight ever since she was small, but about five years ago she went totally blind. She was a tremendous artist, before and… well, between that and Nao’s death, it has been hard on her. She wants so much to see again and, well…”

I watched the play of emotions on Simon’s familiar-unfamiliar face as he told the story. It was strange, seeing emotions bared so plainly on those features that I was used to holding such subtle tells and tics. It was a little like watching Nureyev disappear into an alias that was different from him, and at the same time…  _ so _ much weirder. I ran a hand uncomfortably through my hair as the story fell easily into order, “The cybernetic place, on Snotra. Were you trying to get her  _ eyes _ ?” Simon looked away but nodded in confirmation. Unlike his brother, Simon was no master thief, of course he’d been caught. But like his own parents, he had been desperate to provide for the needs of his child.

_ Fuck _ . I didn’t  _ want _ to… but I actually liked him.

“I… this is probably really rude, but,” Simon gestured to my face, where I had distractedly began rubbing at my eyepatch, “Do you have any experience with cybernetics?”

“A bit,” I said, voice clipped, “Didn’t care for it myself, but my experience wasn’t the norm.”

“Sounds like none of your experiences have been.” He observed cannily.

I laughed, “You have no idea, pal. So… you got caught and they pegged you as Peter Nureyev?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “I  _ tried  _ to tell them I wasn’t him, but of course they didn’t buy it. I mean, why would they?” 

“‘ _ I’m not Peter Nureyev, I’m his secret twin’, _ ” I conceded, “Exactly what the real Peter Nureyev might say to get out of a jam.”

“Right,” he said with an appreciative nod. He hesitated, fidgeted, “They offered me a plea, said they'd let me off easy if I could lure the true Angel back to Brahma.” he shook his head, “You have to understand, J-Juno,” he faltered on my name, as if he almost second-guessed whether he was allowed to say it without a real introduction, “I had no other choice, I had to at least  _ try _ to live long enough to get home to my Delia.”

“Yeah,” I sat heavily at the foot of the bed, “Yeah, I believe you…”

“It wasn’t just about me, though,” he confessed, “I was sure that if Peter actually  _ did _ return, he’d… if he saw how things still are on Brahma, how the people there  _ believe _ in him—” as if summoned by Simon’s words, by Simon’s confidence in Nureyev’s heroism, the quiet night was suddenly disrupted by the sounds of celebration. The window was open to let in the pleasant night breeze, and amidst the disorganized hollering, a chant quickly took shape.

_ The Angel flies again! _

The news must have broken, then, of Peter Nureyev’s escape. Dammit, we had dawdled too long, we had really wanted to be off-world before the fallout, “Nureyev!” I called, “C’mon, we gotta go!”

When the door did not immediately open, when Nureyev did not immediately respond, with a sinking dread  _ I knew. _

I swore, launching myself off the bed and across the room to the bathroom door in an instant. It wasn’t locked and it swung open, banging against the adjoining wall with the force I’d thrown into it. 

I’d forgotten the earpiece was in my ear, and I startled when Rita said, urgently, “You boys  _ reeeeally _ need to get a move on! Things are gettin’ ugly and—”

“Nureyev,  _ god dammit,  _ where are you?” I demanded, cutting Rita off.

“I’m sorry, Juno, my love,” Nureyev’s voice crackled in the earpiece, softly-spoken and apologetic and manic and distracted and  _ final _ , final like a goodbye, final like he’d already made his fucking decision, final like he was already far away and long-gone, “I have some unfinished business to attend to. I’ll be— well, I love you.”

“ _ Nureyev _ , don’t you fucking  _ dare _ ,” I growled, desperation clawing up my throat from my heart, “Where are you, we’ve gotta—”

“Mistah Nureyev—”

“I have to do this, Juno,” Nureyev said, as softly as if we were curled up in our bed together, but soured with that goddamn note of  _ finality _ that sounded like the taste of blood and the vinegar smell of plasma and the cold steel of a locked door against my cheek; sounded like one last promise, one last confession, “I love you.” There was a rustle of static.

“Fucking hell, Nureyev, let me  _ help you _ , then, don’t just,” my view of the open bathroom window blurred slightly, the fluttering curtain going out of focus, “Disappear.”

But of course, that was what he did, wasn’t it? Disappearing was what he was  _ famous _ for. And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it to me.  _ The Angel flies again! _ The crowds cheered outside and  _ fuck _ , they were more right than they knew. I sagged against the doorframe, trying to remember how to breathe as Rita was asking me, panicky, what we were going to do.

“Juno,” I turned at the sound of Simon’s voice, having honestly forgotten that he was even there. I pawed the tears from my eye, saw the pride and fear and determination warring on Simon’s face plain as day, “We’re going after him, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, straightening my spine, “Yeah, of course we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Joshua Ilon put it, "And, really, what is the Penumbra if not 'Nureyev is gone' ? "


	7. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter
> 
> rebellion, destruction  
> minor character death  
> mild gore, blood  
> extreme dissociation  
> near death experience  
> suicidal thinking

I pulled the earpiece free of my ear and shoved it in my pocket. Juno’s heartsick voice rang in my head like the reverberations of a struck gong, thrumming in my blood, aching and beautiful. I wanted to get back to him — more than anything, truly, I wanted to leave Brahma behind and be home with him again — and I was going to if I could. But I would make him no false promises of a return that I could not guarantee.

It would have been better if the news had not broken quite so soon. I’d only made it out the window and down to the sidewalk when the crowds had erupted into the street. On instinct, I’d avoided the crowd and tucked myself in the alley beside the hostel, trying to determine my next course of action. If the street were not so crowded, I could take the New Kinshasan car I had stolen and deserted earlier, but even with so short a walk, I had no confidence that I could make it. If I was taken into custody ‘again’, there would be no hesitation and no mercy. 

I was willing to die, but not until I had done something to earn the mantle of heroism that had been slung over my shoulders.

It was surreal to see so many people in the street when it was customary to lurk near the buildings. The people before me, though… they were too jubilant to care. They were dancing and chanting, rejoicing and trading my name as though it were a blessing, all in full view of the Guardian Angel System that had suppressed them for so long.

I was still frozen in the alley when the first laser — like the deadly retribution of some petty and offended god — blared down from above. I winced against the blinding red light as several more shots followed. For an instant, there was quiet, as those left standing in the streets gaped at the charred evidence left behind and then… as sudden as an ocean wave returning to the shore, the scene shifted. The people were not singing, they were _shouting_ . They were not dancing, they were _running_ . They were not celebrating, they were _rioting._

“Holy shit,” I turned my head so fast my neck cracked, coming face to face with the woman who had welcomed Juno and I to the hostel the previous day, Eleanor Kharkiva. She was wearing a peculiar shirt, some sort of home-made body armor, her eyes wide and glued to my face, “It _is_ you!” I opened my mouth to deny it but before I could, she grabbed hold of my arm and was tugging me back deeper in the alley, “I _thought_ you looked like him but you looked _too old_ , but I guess that was just makeup, huh?”

“You didn’t say anything.” I managed to say, which was rather useless of me.

Eleanor laughed, “Of course, not, I wasn’t gonna blow your cover,” she turned to me, with a fanatic gleam in her eyes, “I’m on your _side_ , Peter Nureyev.”

It was like a stimulant injected straight into my bloodstream, to be addressed by name like that by someone I hardly knew, “Oh, I see.” I said.

 _‘PETER NUREYEV,’_ A voice boomed around us from the speakers throughout the city, and it was truly like my worst nightmares come to life, _‘SURRENDER YOURSELF AND NO MORE BLOOD WILL BE SHED ON BRAHMA. CIVILIANS - RETURN PETER NUREYEV TO US AND YOU WILL BE PROTECTED_ —’ 

“C’mon!” I turned my attention back to Eleanor as she pulled me, though the voice continued from the speakers. She released my arm only when we reached a pile of detritus.

“What are you doing, Miss Kharkiva?” I asked, my voice coming back to my ears strangely, as if I were under water, as I watched her begin pulling away pieces of cardboard and tarpaulin.

“I’m becoming part of history,” she said, as a contraption of some sort came into view, odd parts bolted together creatively, “I’m fighting for freedom,” she beamed at me, “Just like you.”

“Why do you have that...” I considered the machine she was revealing, “Vehicle?” I guessed.

“For _this_ ,” she said, pulling the last of the trash away and popping open the top of the vehicle and revealing two seats, “I’m glad I made a two-seater, get in!” I hesitated for only an instant before doing as she’d said. As she sealed the windscreen back down, she shook her head in exultant disbelief, “I never expected I’d be giving _you_ a ride, imagine that, Eleanor Kharkiva with _the_ Peter Nureyev!”

“Made,” I repeated as I buckled myself in and observed the inscrutably mismatched controls on the dashboard, “You _built_ this machine?”

“Not much to look at, I know, but she flies,” she said, fiddling with a couple of knobs and pressing on a pedal. As promised, the vehicle lifted off the ground with a shudder and Eleanor maneuvered it out of the alley and above the buildings. I blinked several times, sure that I was hallucinating. All over the city, similar vehicles were taking to the sky, “We call ‘em freedom flyers, pretty much everyone in the rebellion has one.”

“But vehicle licensing—” I began foolishly.

Eleanor cut me off with a laugh, “Who cares about _licensing_? Pretty sure staging a damn coup is illegal, too, Peter Nureyev, they’re not going to scare us by threatening our flying licenses!”

“A coup,” I repeated, as we soared towards the city in the sky, belching out lasers left and right into the city below, “How long have you been planning this?”

“Years, Peter Nureyev,” she glanced at me, “We’ve just been waiting for the right moment but it’s here now. And so are you!” she laughed, all adrenaline and optimism and vindication, “You’re going to take care of Minister Bridle, I bet.”

“Yes,” I said, without hesitating. Of course, I was. For years, I had read the news of what he was doing on my home planet with no recourse but to seethe at every injustice, every tightened restriction, every scapegoat made of _my people_. Yes, if taking his life was my part to play in history, I would do it, and I would do it with relish, “Smart girl.” Eleanor preened at the praise and yelped when a laser missed us by inches. I peeked out the window and wished I hadn’t, seeing the nearby laser-struck freedom flyer going down in a spiral of smoke. 

_Remember what your father died for, my boy. And all those people like him, struck down by a kind of power no one should wield._ For the first time in very long, I did not push Mag’s voice out of my thoughts. I almost wished that he was with me, that he were here to see the culmination of the rebellion that had consumed his life. And precipitated his death.

As we flew higher, Eleanor did not speak, focusing on flying safely. The first rebels must have reached New Kinshasa, because elegant cars and shuttles were pouring out of the city, residents fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. Finally, we came up over the edge of the floating city, and left the range of the lasers, both heaving a sigh of relief, “I’ll get you as close to the capitol as I can, Peter Nureyev,” Eleanor promised me, as we soared up above the city, high enough that its evenly laid streets and pretty parks looked like a child’s toys laid out on a table, “And then I have to meet up with my team.”

“Thank you, Miss Kharkiva,” I said sincerely, as we approached the glittering capitol building, as fake and pretty as a rhinestone.

She rolled her eyes, “No, Peter Nureyev, thank _you_ ,” she said, pulling the flyer up to one of the building’s balconies, “Even if we fail, you gave us _hope_ , and that’s worth more than anything.”

She popped open the windscreen again and I covered her hand with mine, “Succeed or fail,” I beseeched her, “Promise me you’ll try to get out of this with your life?”

Eleanor grinned at me, “When trouble arises, I disappear.” she said back to me, with the confidence of one who had heard and spoken those words all her life.

Everything seemed to slide in and out of focus as I climbed out of the flyer and slipped unseen into the capitol. It was too easy, _pathetically_ easy, to infiltrate. I moved with no plan, just pure predatory instinct, half the time watching myself as if I were a player in a stream. I’d encountered more vigilant security at hundreds of mansions and low-profile businesses; I could do this in my sleep. But New Kinshasa was nothing if not arrogant. I had tried to warn them all those years ago, I had tried to dissuade them from their smug, destructive, selfish ways. Warned them not too grow too comfortable, or too complacent in their power. But they had not heeded my words, they had only collected more enemies, more rebels like Eleanor Kharkiva.

I crept through the capitol’s lavish hallways, occasionally incapacitating a guard. I was little more than an elegant collection of muscle memories, pulled along by a grander purpose, a graceful cat stalking its predestined prey.

I had done so many jobs alone in my life, but I felt oddly as though I were _accompanied_ . Like Mag was at one shoulder and Juno at the other. It was an absurd thought, one that never could have been for myriad reasons, but it was indescribably comforting. I felt _invincible_. I felt as though finally, I was fulfilling a destiny that had been waiting impatiently for me since I’d been a child with blood on my hands.

Or younger than that, maybe. When my parents were incinerated before my and Simon’s eyes. Or when Mag first concocted the story of a noble father, who even the clothes of a constable could not protect.

At some point, my infiltration of the capitol had taken on a dreamlike quality. I kept on watching it as though it were one of Rita’s streams. When the prodigal rebel strode into the Prime Minister’s office, wiping a guard’s blood from his knife on his thigh, Brutus Bridle fell to his knees, blubbering and begging for mercy. The rebel was so tall and his back so straight, the crumpled man at his feet seemed so small and pathetic. The heroic rebel reminded the man below him that he had been responsible for the suffering and subjugation of all those innocent people, and he had done nothing to deserve the mercy for which he pleaded.

I watched the scene transfixed.

“But they call you an angel!” Bridle begged, grasping at straws.

“An avenging angel,” I watched the rebel say, cool and unapologetic as he drew a knife across the villain’s throat in a scarlet mockery of a grin, “As merciless as your Guardian Angel, but far more just.”

When he collapsed into a spreading pool of blood, he was no different than any other man. Petty tyrants were a dime a dozen in our galaxy, and the avenging angel felt no remorse removing one from the game. I watched as he wiped his knife clean again on the dead man’s jacket and stowed it in his sleeve.

And then everything began to shake. And the sensation tugged me back into myself, like being shaken from a dream. Everything was shaking… familiarly.

It surprised a laugh out of me, the sheer dramatic irony of it. Because, _of course._ I would know that particular tremor anywhere, it had shaken me out of so many nightmares over the past two decades. Somewhere not far from here, the core had been removed in that suffocatingly red room that had haunted me, and this time, New Kinshasa was going to fall.

I did not want to die.

Perhaps the thought should not have surprised me as it did. I had been so sure of it before, when I had bid adieu to Juno, but the fact of it had dissolved somewhere in my compulsive bid for justice. I crossed to the Prime Minister’s balcony and looked out over the candy-colored city that wasn’t really mine, the city that was going to crush my city below. I hoped that the rebellion’s plan had taken the necessity of evacuation into account. And I hoped too that Juno would be long goneby now.

I had not wanted to leave him behind, but I hoped it had not been too hard for him to leave me. He’d done it once before, though that seemed so beautifully easy to forgive here, at the end.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since I had left him, but it was more than time enough for him to rendezvous with Rita and get off this accursed planet and I only hoped that he had. He should live to see many more adventures with brighter ends than this one.

The thought of missing out on those adventures hurt, all of the skies I would not get to see Juno under, all of the stars that I would not see dim in the presence of his brilliance. The distance between us _ached_ ; I should very much have liked to kiss him again. The memory of it — soft lips, rough chin, sweet gaze, and blazing heart — was enough to flood me with gratitude for having lived at all, for having ever known such beauty and warmth. 

He must be in a burning fury, my exquisite, irascible Juno. I hoped that he would not hate me too much, that he would not weep for too long without me there to hold him. The thought broke my heart. I believed he would understand, though, ultimately, that my life was worth less than my cause. Juno had a good grasp of hard truths like that one. In time he would even find it in that wonderful, generous heart of his to forgive me for leaving him behind. 

The shaking intensified, and I had to hold onto the balcony railing to keep from falling. My knees were weak, but I would go on standing.

I closed my eyes and took a faltering breath. I held it in my chest, I tasted it on my tongue, savoured it. There would not be very many more.


	8. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for that cliffhanger! Thank you everyone who has been reading along and leaving such lovely comments, I LOVE hearing from you! Ok, enough making you wait.
> 
> TW for this chapter:  
> danger  
> substance abuse  
> ~*~ trauma ~*~

“No, Mistah Steel, you  _ can’t _ go in there! This place is goin’ down any second and if you can’t find him real fast—”

“You’re tracking his comms, you’ll tell me where to go—” I insisted, ready to jump out of our stolen car and just start yelling Nureyev’s name into the chaos. Not that I’d be the only one, probably, since apparently my missing boyfriend’s fucking _secret_ name was apparently a goddamn battle cry around here.

“I will  _ not _ , Mistah Steel!” Rita countered, “My signal is all wonky because of all the bombs and data scramblin’ junk that’s goin’ on up there! Last I saw he was in the capitol but that reading hasn’t updated in  _ minutes _ and Mistah Nureyev could be  _ anywhere _ —”

“I don’t care, Rita!” my voice cracked shrilly.  _ Not again, _ no. _ Nureyev could  _ not _ be added to the list of people I failed to save.  _ “I don’t  _ care _ , got it? I’m not, I-I can’t just let him  _ die _ —”

“Mistah Steel, I’m scared too, but—”

“I’m not  _ scared  _ !” I spat, the trembling in my voice not helping my point one bit, “I’m f-fucking  _ pissed  _ ! How could he just ditch me like that, how could he do something this dangerous—”

Listen, I’ve never tried to claim I wasn’t a hypocrite, okay?

“ _ There he is!  _ ”

My head whipped so fast it sent a shooting pain down my neck, scrambling to look the way that Simon was indicating. I squinted through the plasma-fumes and dust and smoke — a far cry from the flower petals that had floated on the New Kinshasan breeze earlier — and sure enough, there I spotted a familiar silhouette. I swerved the car in the right direction, flattening the pedal and still cursing it for not going  _ faster _ , “What  _ the hell _ is he doing?” I muttered as we got closer to Nureyev and I could see him better, standing on a balcony of the gaudy capitol building, with his eyes closed and an incongruously peaceful expression on his face.

“He’s saying goodbye.” Simon observed, his tone calm and bleak and… I had to admit, accurate. Fury and pain and recognition surged through me; I knew that expression, I’d  _ made  _ that expression; I  _ knew _ the feeling that went with it. And who the fuck did Peter Nureyev think he was, standing there on this plummeting city and welcoming his death as if I didn’t even get a say in it? What right did he have, making his _goodbyes_?

I pressed down on the horn and held it, the noise blaring satisfying as the car swerved to a hovering stop in front of him. The sound startled Nureyev so badly he lost his footing, staggering back from the balcony railing as Simon threw the back door open. Nureyev blinked at us, and there was something foggy and distant in his eyes behind his glasses as he stared at Simon. Then his gaze found me behind the wheel and his eyes went wide. I saw his lips shape my name but couldn’t hear the sound over the alarms and cacophony of destruction that surrounded us, “Get the fuck in!” I barked.

He didn’t need to be told twice, thankfully, because we really didn’t have the time to go over it more than once. He jolted into action, clambering over the railing and into the car with less than his usual feline grace. The second he was inside, I sped off, the air whooshing loudly against the dangling door until Simon reached across him and yanked it shut, “We’ve got him, Rita,” I said, not trusting myself to look back at him just yet, “We’re headed to you now.”

She began squealing delightedly in my ear and… it’s not as if I wasn’t grateful that he was okay. I was. Or, I would be — _I was_ — but I was still too angry and way too hopped up on adrenaline to feel much of anything beyond the urgency to get the hell out of there. The sky was thick with vehicles from Brahma and New Kinshasa alike, people trying to get out ahead of the inevitable _squish,_ not bothering to heed the zoning and flight lanes one bit. Driving needed all my focus, and I was actually relieved to just focus on not hitting anyone. I did not slow down for a second, zipping to the spaceport where we’d left Rita and our ship. To hell with speed limits, to hell with this stolen car, to hell with customs. To hell with Brahma and its stupid fucked up politics. All I wanted was to get the hell off this stupid goddamn rock where nothing went by the right name and everything was backwards and _I_ had to be the sane, reasonable one who did all the talking and got stuck behind the wheel, responsible for our group survival. 

When we emptied out of the car, Simon caught my arm. I wheeled around to shout him down, to shake his hand off of me, but caught myself at the sheepish, conflicted look on his face, “I, uh, should I come with you?”

I stuffed my anger down; his cool head and knowledge of the terrain had been helpful in finding his stupid brother before it was too late. He might have Nureyev’s face, but he wasn’t the one I was angry at. He shouldn't pay for his brother's crimes, keeping that from happening was the whole point of us being here. _I thought he was you_ … No no _no_ , I pushed that thought down too, hard, “Do you want to stay here?” I asked. Simon shook his head, “Then come with us. We’ll bring you back to Delia.”

A thankful smile washed over his face, taking some of the tension with it, “Thanks, Juno.” he said and hurried ahead of me up the ramp.

I felt eyes on me and looked at Nureyev directly for the first time since we’d picked him up. There was blood on his hands, his sleeves, his chest, his thigh, but I didn’t think any of it belonged to him. He didn’t look quite as out of it as he had when he’d gotten into the car, but there was still something unidentifiable in his expression. He had watched my interaction with Simon, and I could tell from the line of his mouth that he wanted to ask a question, “C’mon, Nureyev,” I said, rather than give him the chance to say anything, “Time for us to disappear.” I couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of my voice.

He flinched, of course, but I didn't take any satisfaction in it. He nodded, hurried after his brother up into the ship. I brought up the rear, and we were off. The violent coup taking place at New Kinshasa had the local authorities distracted, and with Rita and Nureyev in the cockpit, we evaded capture as my adrenaline high began to tip the other way. Once we were through the atmosphere and back in the blissful relative safety of space, I made a bee-line for my room.

Our room, I had to remind myself. The room Nureyev and I  _ shared _ . Symptom of the life we shared where we made decisions together regarding what color sheets went on the bed, but not about our spur of the moment decisions to throw ourselves at certain death. This would likely be his next stop, too, and I really wasn’t ready to face him. The adrenaline was dissipating fast and I just wanted to switch my brain  _ off _ . I hesitated in the doorway for a moment, flirting with that thought before giving into it, crossing to the nearer side of the bed —  _ my _ side of the bed — and digging through the nightstand for the bottle of bourbon that lived there for just this occasion.  _ For emergencies _ , I’d told myself when I stashed it there, and I’d be damned if this didn’t count. I took a swig, relishing the well-loved burn of it on my tongue and down my throat before stuffing it under my coat and heading back to the door.

Not quite fast enough. The door opened just as I reached it, and Nureyev and I almost walked into each other, “Juno!” he said, sounding relieved, surprised, nervous; an echo of Duke Rose, “There you are.”

“Yeah, hi.” I grumbled with a limp wave.

Nureyev frowned and looked away, and there was no mistaking the weariness that settled into every long, lean line of him, “Juno, love, I’m so—”

“Look, Nureyev, we don’t have to do this right now,” I interrupted, words tripping over themselves. I really wasn’t ready to have this conversation; I couldn’t trust myself not to yell at him. And I didn’t  _ want _ to yell at him, or at least, I knew it wouldn’t be nice to, that it wasn’t what he needed. I recognized that weariness he wore, I’d worn it myself like a ball and chain, dragging it behind me like penance when I left him in that hotel, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I had somehow  _ survived _ when I hadn’t expected or intended to still have to put up with  _ life.  _ It wasn't a great time for getting yelled at, “You must be real tired, how about I just let you get some rest.”

“Juno—” I didn’t turn back to face him, I didn’t hear what he said next, the words swallowed up by the door shutting behind me. My shoulders sagged and I tilted my head back, looking up at the ceiling. I shouldn’t walk away, but I couldn’t talk to him right now and how the hell would a well-adjusted adult deal with a conundrum like that? I certainly didn’t know. When he didn’t pursue me, I slouched off aimlessly, eventually collapsing into a seat in the observation room, looking out at the stars with glazed eyes. My hands shook as I twisted the top from the bottle and brought it to my lips, drinking slow and deep, as if the amber liquid could somehow stop the gnawing uncertainty at the very core of me, or quiet the echoes that had been banging around my head for twenty-odd years.

_ You look damn spiffy in that uniform, Super Steel! Every hero needs her chainmail, am I right? _

_ I’m just a  _ cop _ , Benten, not a  _ hero.

_ Pfft, whatever. You’ve always been  _ my  _ hero. _

It wasn’t cold on the ship but it damn well felt like it in contrast to the memory of the warm arm that had slung around my shoulders with the ease of a lifetime spent side-by-side and always being just the same height. I lowered the bottle and swallowed the burn down past the lump in my throat; I felt about a thousand years older than I’d been then, a thousand years older than Ben ever got to be. He’d pinned me with that look of his, fond and defiant and just about  _ daring _ me to badmouth his brother. His chin tilted up, just like Simon’s had been before, the moment when he’d looked more like Nureyev than the rest, with that stubborn spark of self-assurance.

I’d never thought of Benzaiten and Nureyev as having much in common. They didn’t, not really. Ben had been so open and sincere, a pretty terrible liar, while Nureyev had built his whole goddamn  _ everything _ on the ease with which he could shut himself away and misdirect anyone with an expert lie. Ben had been so instinctive, earthy, following his heart with the same trust in his gut that allowed his body to follow a song’s beat without him telling it to. Nureyev was always neck-deep in  _ plans _ , scheming and plotting, tracing a tapestry and carefully finding just which thread needed to be pulled, following his wits to the point that he sometimes neglected what was in his heart.

Which was part of what had shot terror to my core about his little stunt on Brahma. That wasn’t Nureyev, to chase an impulse like that, to let a challenge and insecurity shove him into a corner. That was  _ me _ , and it had been a little bit  _ Benten _ , but it wasn’t  _ Peter Nureyev. _

But Simon had challenged him, and he had risen to it. 

I took another deep drink. He had been trying to do the right thing, and maybe he had. Big picture, right? We’d left Brahma a smoking ruin but at least we’d left them with a chance of freedom, those that lived long enough to see it. I wondered if I was just justifying it, I wondered if Ben would have seen it that way, Ben who had never had any aspirations of glory or any designs to save the world.

No, he and Nureyev really didn’t have that much in common, except that I loved them both and for some reason they both love me back.  _ Loved _ me back, in Benten’s case. The richness of the bourbon on my tongue turned bitter; it had almost been past tense for Nureyev, too. They’d nearly acquired another thing in common, having the nerve to die and leave me without my other half.

The tears hit me with all the force of a city plummeting to the ground, and I dropped the bottle, my body curling in on itself. I wrapped my arms around my head and pressed my face into my knees and allowed the sobs to shake through me, leeching the tension and terror and grief from my bones until all I could feel was  _ tired _ and a little bit drunk.


	9. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> reference to maybe not totally full, sane consent (in Final Resting Place)  
> more dissociation  
> rumination on mortality

It came as no surprise to me that Juno would be angry. I might even have been disappointed had he not been; would he  _ be _ Juno Steel without the affronted whipcrack of that temper? And I had certainly given him cause for anger. 

But… I had suspected that he might perhaps feel some small measure of  _ relief  _ at our reunion, as well.

Or, not exactly. I hadn't expected a reunion at all. But in the event of one, I thought that perhaps he might not seem unable to bear being in the same room as me.

I stared at the door and considered going after him, but knew it would do little good. Even at his most calm, my Juno did not respond well to being chased down or cornered, and if he needed to cool off, I had best leave him to it. Still… there was a hollowness in my chest where the sound of my lone steps across our empty room seemed to echo, as I went to our bed without him. I shed my bloody, dirty clothes — a shame about the trousers — and laid down. I ought to bathe, I knew, not only to cleanse my body but to scrub the day off, but now that I was down, I couldn’t seem to get up again.

I looked at the ceiling, and I felt so  _ much _ that it made me numb. 

I couldn’t help but to wonder, was this how Juno had felt after Miasma? 

I knew him so much better now than I had then, and looking back on our first night together in that Hyperion City hotel through the lens of what I knew now, I could never help but to cringe. He had been so…  _ passive _ . By no means disinterested or dispassionate — I was not so blind in my desire that I would have taken him to bed if his interest and passion had been at all in question — but he had not been the bright-eyed, sharp-tongued Juno that had stolen my heart. There had been a pliant passivity to him, his body sluggishly following where I guided him, like a satellite in distracted gravity.

He had been weary and worn down by our weeks in the tomb, I had told myself. Justified to myself. We both were less than our best. And I had been so  _ relieved _ to have him more or less intact and in my arms, and it had been our first time. It was not until I woke alone that I looked back on it and kicked myself for not heeding the strange distant look I'd spied in his sole remaining eye.

But now… now perhaps I understood a little of what he had felt then. Because as I lay there in only skin, even the feeling of the bedspread against my bare back could not ground me. What  _ was  _ this body, anyway, and why was my existence tied to it in the first place? 

Juno’s orgasmic cry that long ago night had been nearer to a sob. Maybe my touch had at least made his body feel a little more real, or like it served a purpose other than not dying when he expected it to. I thought again about getting up and going after him, begging him to touch me to see if it would make me feel like I really had survived, like I wasn’t still perched on that balcony like a perfect little martyr. But to do that I would have had to move, and that was simply outside the question.

I must have fallen asleep eventually, because some time later, I awoke. I was still alone, curled up on my side, wrapped around Juno’s pillow, with my face crushed desperately into the warm coffee and amber smell of him that lingered in the fabric. Reluctantly I sat up, feeling tightness in the muscles I had exerted in my foolish bid to save the world. I sighed and dropped my head into my hands, allowing myself a moment of self-pity before dragging myself from the bed and into the shower.

I emerged considerable minutes later, feeling that I had scrubbed not only my skin but my mind. I do not mean to imply I was back to normal,  _ that  _ I certainly was not. But I felt that I inhabited my body properly again and that was no mean feat. I dressed simply and comfortably, loose simsilk lounge pants and an old blue sweater of Juno’s that I wore with so much more frequency than him that ownership of it perhaps had transferred to me by now. Having reconnected with my physical form by way of my shower, I could not deny the hunger that complained in my stomach any longer and allowed it to guide my steps to the galley.

I worried, for a split instant, that I was experiencing another dissociation from my body, and seeing myself from the outside. And then I chuckled at my own foolishness; it was Simon who stood indecisively in the middle of the ship’s cramped kitchen, not me. Though we were so alike, it was a mistake anyone could have made. At the sound of my laugh, he turned to look, his face an open book exposing his nerves, his guilt, his hesitation, “Hello.” I greeted, but it did not appear to put him at ease.

“Hi… Peter.” He said, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“I find myself in dire need of coffee and something to eat,” I said conversationally, “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

Simon blinked at me and then flushed in embarrassment, “Thank you, yes, um, I didn’t know where anything was and it didn’t feel right to just start going through your cabinets when I, um, after all the, I don’t want to—” he cut himself off and sighed, “Thanks.” he amended and sat in one of the galley’s three stools.

“Everyone aboard this ship has a history of poking their nose where it doesn’t belong,” I informed him, as I began preparing the coffee, “We could hardly hold it against you that you should attempt to feed yourself while in our safekeeping.”

“Right,” he said, and after a beat, “So, safekeeping. Is that your way of signaling to me that I’m still a hostage?”

I looked at him, turning my head a bit sharply at the question. I opened my mouth to deny it, but hesitated. Given the particulars of our escape from Brahma, I hadn’t actually given any thought to exactly in what capacity Simon was still here, “I… forgive me for parting the kimono, but frankly, I have no idea if you’re still a hostage.”

Simon frowned and then abruptly laughed, “In that case, I guess I’m not. Juno said you’d take me back to my daughter on Snotra.”

“Then that is what we shall do,” I said, opening the refrigerator to gather ingredients before his words caught up with me and I turned to him again, “You have a daughter?”

“Delia,” he said, and the pride positively oozed from him, “She’s sixteen, smart as a plasma whip, a gifted artist now profoundly blind in both eyes, and skeptical of her old man’s stories about his gallant long-lost brother.”

“Huh,” I said, internalizing and filing that information. I carried my ingredients to the counter and then turned to him, a smile trying to tug my lips upward, “I have a niece.”

“Have you decided to believe me, then?” he asked, “About being your brother?”

“If you are not, you’re doing an admirable job of faking it, and I could take no other course but to applaud such a virtuoso, one conman to another,” I said, pouring a cup of coffee and passing it to him, “And besides, believing it is the least I could do,” I turned my back to him as I poured my own cup, “Whatever you did yesterday, you seem to have earned Juno’s esteem and that is not an honor he gives out with any regularity. I have learned to follow his lead when he deigns to trust someone new.”

Simon hummed around a sip of coffee, “I like him,” he said, before quickly amending, “Not that you need my approval or anything!”

“I don’t,” I said, as I heated a pan, “But it’s rather novel, all in all. I’m not used to having any family to approve or disapprove of my taste in ladies.”

I could feel that he wanted to ask what had become of Mag, but he restrained himself for the time being. I finished making our food and sat across from him as we ate, trying not to stare at the copy of myself, chewing and sipping and wiping his mouth without the impeccable manners I had learned from the man who had left my brother to fend for himself on the streets. And to Simon’s credit, he managed to resist asking until after our plates were clear and we were each nursing our second cup. It took me by surprise that I did not wish to lie to him or avoid the topic; on the contrary, I wanted him to know. I explained how Mag had trained me to be a thief and revolutionary, how he had filled my head with grandeur and dreams of vengeance. And I told him what had really happened on the day that had made my name —  _ our _ name — famous.

“Oh, Peter,” he said, and his voice was rich with sympathy and regret, “If I’d known, I never would have said all that to you yesterday, about having to be a hero.”

I waved it off with a careless hand, “How could you have known? You’re only the second person in the galaxy who has learned my side of things in their entirety.”

As if summoned by my implication, the door opened with a hiss and revealed Juno. My lady is beautiful, always, no matter what, but he was rather the worse for wear at the present moment. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes — the ones he’d changed into while I climbed out the bathroom window — dreadfully rumpled now from having slept in them. His posture indicated stiffness — wherever he had slept instead of our bed, it did not seem to have been somewhere very comfortable — and his eye was red, with a dark shadow beneath, “Juno, my love,” the endearment came out a little shaky, “There’s plenty of coffee and food on the stove.”

Juno’s eye pierced me for barely a second before sliding away, taking in the scene of Simon and I seated together and clearly relaxed. He poured himself a cup of coffee in silence and shuffled back out of the galley in the direction of our room, giving me an unmistakable whiff of liquor as he passed. When he’d gone, I permitted myself a small groan.

“I know I just met you both,” Simon said, carefully, “But you owe him an apology.”

“I’m aware.” came my brusque reply.

“You scared the daylights out of him,” Simon went on, and I wished he wouldn’t, every new word a spike of guilt in my heart, “Before I spotted you, he was desperate, yelling at your friend Rita. He was ready to throw himself in there after you, even if he would have died.”

I sighed long and low, and set down my coffee mug so that the hot liquid could not be sloshed by my unsteady hands, “That… yes, that sounds like him.” It didn’t sound like him  _ recently _ , though. It sounded like him… before. Before I knew that he smelled like coffee and amber, because the smell of the alcohol obscured it. Before I knew what his smile looked like when it was not a sardonic and fleeting laugh at his own expense. If my impulsive selfishness had dragged Juno backward, had sabotaged his hard-won progress, of which I was so proud and awed… I swore. And then I changed the subject, “Did Rita give an ETA on Snotra, by any chance?”

“Yeah, should be a few more hours.” Simon said, glancing impatiently at the clock.

“You must be eager to be home.” I said, resting my chin on my hand as he nodded, “Tell me more about my niece, would you?”

A beaming, indulgent smile overtook Simon’s face. He wasn’t a mark in the traditional sense, but that one always worked to keep someone talking. Whoever they were, from the most bedraggled street urchin to the most spoiled heiress, everyone was eager to gush about what they love. And my brother was no exception.


	10. Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> reference to canon-typical suicidal ideation (in the past)  
> Benzaiten-related angst  
> the bois fighting :(

I slept off some of my hangover in our room and tried to convince myself that the smell of Nureyev in our sheets wasn’t an immense comfort. When I woke up a few hours later with my nose full of his cologne and clove-spiciness of his skin, I smiled, opening my eye and expecting him to be there. He wasn’t.

I heard him laugh — a full-bodied, honest laugh — and longing and irritation collided inside me. How could he  _ laugh _ like that, like everything was fine, like  _ he _ was fine? How many months had I spent hardly able to drag myself to the office, much less  _ laugh _ , after the soul-deep let-down of the Egg of Purus blowing Miasma to kingdom come without taking me along? I rolled out of the bed and took a shower. As I washed the booze-stink off, I scolded myself that Nureyev was a way better liar than I was. He must just be faking it better than I could.

I dried off and shrugged into some clothes. I couldn’t avoid everyone forever, especially not with the way my stomach was begging me to put something into it. It had been a long time since I’d actually drank like that, and my body wasn’t too happy about it. As I walked down the corridor towards the kitchen, I came into earshot of the conversation and gave in eagerly to the impulse to eavesdrop.

“...was what led to Mag deciding I should learn to play an instrument, even though he never had much of an ear for music.” Nureyev was explaining, and I couldn’t help my small frown at the ease with which he was describing the problematic foster father who I knew still haunted him.

“Well, I’m not surprised you do,” Simon replied fondly, “We both got that from our dad, I suspect.”

“Our… he was a musician?” Nureyev did not mask the hopeful curiosity in his voice.

“His guitar was his most prized possession,” Simon confirmed, “He used to play it every night as we fell asleep.”

A sound escaped Nureyev that I couldn’t identify, something between a sob, a laugh, and a gasp. I wondered if we were thinking of the same thing, the guitar he’d heard playing on New Kinshasa all those years ago with Mag, and how the song had pulled at his heartstrings, “I,” he said, voice choked with emotion, “I do believe I remember that, if only a little.”

“Oh, Peter.” Simon said kindly, and after a beat, uncertain, “Come here?”

There was a barely audible rustle of fabric and a chuckle that might have come from either one of them. The sense that I was intruding on something private finally won out over my curiosity and I continued on to the kitchen. I drank down a glass of water in one go and munched on this and that without tasting, standing by the fridge and trying to swallow down the ugly feeling that was welling up in me. It had less to do with all of the alcohol I’d poured into my stomach and everything to do with the moment of genuine brotherly connection I had just overheard. It was unmistakable, and I’d had enough of them myself back in the day to know one when I saw it. I drank some more water and tried not to think about Ben, with about as little success as ever.

I considered going right back to our room, but I had to admit the petulant act was getting played out. Better to just bite the bullet, face the music, and so on. When I entered the small living room area, it was to the sight of Simon and Nureyev tucked together on the couch, their dark heads close together, speaking too softly to be overheard. If it hadn’t been for their clothes — the jumpsuit Simon still wore in stark contrast to Nureyev’s silky pants and an old sweater that looked immensely more sexy and sophisticated on him than it had ever looked on me — I wouldn’t have been able to tell at a glance which of them was which. 

The thought rankled —  _ I thought he was you. _

Not surprisingly, the head that shot up at the sound of the door opening was Nureyev’s. His eyes, a little shinier than normal, found me and his mouth curved into a smile, “Juno!” he greeted, and my stupid heart  _ leapt  _ for him.

“Hi, Nureyev,” I said with a weak wave, amending, “Um, Nureyev _ s _ .”

Simon laughed and Nureyev’s shoulders relaxed visibly, “We should be reaching Snotra any moment, per Rita’s last update.”

I nodded, unsure what to say to that. Was I supposed to be happy or sad about dropping Simon back home and returning to our lives? Simon’s expression was one of bittersweetness, and I tried to follow his lead, “Looking forward to seeing Delia?”

Simon beamed, “I can’t wait for you both to meet her.”

I bristled at that, and I saw Nureyev take note of the reaction. It was nothing against Delia, or even really anything against Simon, but I wanted my life back. The life Nureyev and I had gone through so much to make together. Sacrificed so much for. I saw Nureyev’s eyes narrow and I wondered if he could easily read the resentment on my face. Before any of us could say a word more, Rita’s voice came over the speakers and announced that we were docking with Snotra’s dome, and would ‘the new Mistah Nureyev’ come tell her where the heck to land. Simon left the room and Nureyev waited for the door to close behind him before turning to me, cocking his head to one side and saying, “Well, Juno, let’s hear it then.”

“Hear what?” I grumbled.

“Whatever it is going on in that pretty head of yours that is responsible for the distasteful expression on your face.” He said, almost as if he  _ wanted _ me to yell at him.

“We all almost died yesterday, how do you expect me to look?” I demanded, anger flaring back to life.

“Well, we  _ didn’t _ die,” he pointed out, “That’s rather a key detail, don’t you think? And a perfectly good reason to smile.”

“Gee, sorry I’m not  _ smiling _ ,” I countered, “But, ya see, your little lapse in survival instinct got me fuck-all more than an almost-dead boyfriend, and it sure as shit didn’t get me a long-lost brother!”

Nureyev’s teasing, stubborn expression seemed to crack, and suddenly it was oozing with pity, which was  _ worse _ , “Juno,” he said, standing up and reaching for me, “I’m sorry—”

“I don’t need your pity, Nureyev.” I insisted gruffly, brushing off his advances.

“Juno, don’t be—” he tried, as the ship rattled slightly as we settled onto the surface of Snotra.

“Look, I’m glad you got to save the world,” I griped sarcastically, “Odds were it was gonna pan out for one of us.”

“Juno…” Nureyev said, voice wounded slightly. I knew I was being cruel, okay? I’m the first to admit I’m a goddamn asshole when I’m feeling sorry for myself.

“C’mon,” I said, turning for the door, “Wouldn’t want to keep the in-laws waiting, now, would I?”

Nureyev did not bother responding to that but fell into step beside me. I almost offered to stay on the ship, as angry and out of sorts as I was, I didn’t honestly want to ruin this experience for him. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it, I knew I’d lose my mind if I was left out, pacing the ship and wondering how long until Nureyev realized that having a real family was lightyears better than just having a badly-adjusted lady like me weighing him down.

I fell behind the others a little ways as we left the ship, feeling some small relief as we entered a dome. Brahma (and plenty of other planets) had their own atmosphere, but I always felt better with a dome over my head. That was about where the resemblance to Mars ended, but it was something anyway. There was a lot of open space between buildings, but the architecture was reminiscent of the blocky, run-down buildings of Brahma. The dome was dark, so we must be in the planet’s artificial night cycle, which was lucky in terms of stealth. Simon took the lead and the three of us followed behind.

I felt a tug on my sleeve and turned to find Rita frowning up at me, “You alright, boss?” she asked in the closest she could get to a whisper.

“I’m not your boss,” I pointed out. She stuck her tongue out at me and waited for a real answer, “I’m fine.” She arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. I sighed, “Fine, I’ve... been better.”

“Mistah Steel, can we just skip over the ‘ _ I’m fine, Rita, I’m too cynical for stuff to make me sad’ _ act?” her hand slipped into mine, “I don’t think it’s a very long walk to new Mistah Nureyev’s daughter and it wouldn’t be very ladylike for you to be all grumpy. Like Frannie always says, you only get one chance at a first impression and you don’t want her to think her uncle Juno is a sourpuss, wouldja?”

“I’m not her uncle,” I said, even though I guessed I might as well be, “Besides, I  _ am _ a sourpuss.”

“Well,  _ yeah _ , but she don’t need to know that right away!”

“I guess not…” I conceded.

“She’s been through enough, sounds like,” Rita went on, “Between losin’ her mom and losin’ her  _ eyes _ and then her dad tryin’ to  _ steal _ her eyes only to lose  _ him _ —”

“Well, we brought him back...” I pointed out.

“Rrright, because we’re the  _ good guys _ ,” Rita grinned and sandwiched my hand between both of hers tightly, so I’d look down at her, “Sooo what harm would it do to maybe  _ act _ like we’re good guys?” I blinked at her and she batted her eyes, adding a hopeful plea, “Whaddya saaaay, Mistah Steeeel?”

“Okay, Rita, okay,” I said, not quite biting back a bemused smile, “I’ll be good.”

“You’re  _ always  _ good, boss,” she corrected confidently, “You just don’t always act like it.”

Before I could decide whether to thank her for the pep talk or squirm against the scolding and the praise, the night quiet was broken by a shriek of, “Dad?!  _ Holy heck _ , nan, I hear dad! _ ” _

Alright, time to behave like… a good uncle. Whatever the hell that meant.


	11. Collision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last three chapters are going up today!
> 
> TW:  
> some typical Nureyev imposter syndrome  
> the bois fighting :(  
> discussion of danger, death, etc

I was a master at adapting to my environment, a chameleon able to fit in and look natural anywhere. Whether it was a luxury spa on Io, or a seedy club on Mars, or anywhere in between. I had insinuated myself seamlessly into buildings of governance, banks, casinos, innumerable businesses, dance recitals, archaeological digs, seed vaults, wedding boutiques, and even Dark Matters itself.  _ Lesson one of thieving, the greater half of belonging is acting like you belong. _ And yet, in a cramped and cozy kitchen on Snotra, I finally met my match.

“So, Peter,” the mother of Simon’s late wife asked pleasantly, as she poured more tea into my cup, “What do you do?”

“U-um,” I stammered, took a shaky sip of tea to stall long enough to come up with an acceptable answer, and burned my lip, “Well, um—”

“We’re couriers,” Juno lied, hands cupped comfortably around his own untouched cup of tea, “We transport messages and goods from one planet to the next,” he shrugged and smiled pleasantly, “It’s not glamorous or anything, but Peter  _ loves _ to travel,” his eye caught mine, and he prompted, “Don’t you, babe?”

“Y-yeah, yes,” I said. I’d never been a clumsy liar, least of all when I was telling the _truth_ , “There’s so much to see in our galaxy, and I want to see it all.”

I thought I’d salvaged that answer well enough, so I wasn’t sure why the older woman’s expression soured slightly, until Rita cut in, tactless but kind, “It don’t matter about the  _ seeing _ , Miss Delia, trust me, the best parta travelin’ in the  _ tastin’ _ ! Ev’ry place has their own local snacks and it’s my mission to try ‘em all!”

_ Smoothly done, Pete. Telling a blind girl about how much there is out there to see.  _

I kept my mouth shut for a while, watching Delia perk up at being addressed directly, engaging Rita about interplanetary cuisine. She was a nice girl, and I was  _ scared  _ of her. She looked like me, for one thing, having inherited Simon’s lean, pointed face, and she was very clever. And… I was terrified that she would not like me.

My gaze travelled around the small kitchen, the accessibility rails along the walls to help Delia get around. The braille affixed to some objects. My eyes scanned the drawers and counter, automatically cataloguing for the third or fifth time everything that could be useful, every tool, every weapon. There was an antique porcelain bowl that might be worth something, just sitting there in the corner full of fruit and I felt an odd pang of sadness at the sight. 

But why? Was it sad for a valuable antique to have a chip out of the rim, and be unrecognized for its worth, or… perhaps was it sadder to think of it in terms of how many creds it could fetch, rather than how charmingly it did the job it was intended to do? 

I did not belong here, that much was certain. I was the anomalous thing in this domestic scene. Juno and Rita had never even been to the Outer Rim until last year, but that was not the matter. They were  _ real _ , the sort of people who knew how to sit around a kitchen table and talk about wontons. I was less a person than I was a thief, eyes drawn to an antique bowl and a knife block, just in case.

“Peter,” I looked up at Simon’s hand on my arm, “I want to show you something.”

I tried not to seem too eager as I stood and followed my brother out of the room, but a sigh escaped me when we were alone in the hall, “Apologies,” I said, answering his curious look, “I, I seem to be making a dreadful impression on your family.”

Simon frowned, “No, you aren’t. And  _ you _ are my family, too.”

I followed him to an adjoining room, and watched as he began digging through a drawer, “I’m sorry I made that comment about sightseeing, I didn’t mean to be insensitive to Delia.”

Simon scoffed without turning away from his search, “Did she look offended to you?” In truth, I had been avoiding looking anywhere but down at my tea, “She was dying to ask you to tell her more, but then Rita got going about food. It’s her nan that’s sensitive about it, and — ah! Here it is!”

He thrust the item into my hands. It was a flickery old digital photo-card, the kind that had already fallen out of popular use when I was growing up. My hands trembled slightly as I brought the image close to my face. It was a wedding photo. A happy, dark-eyed woman in a simple white dress, laughing in the arms of a tall man. He was beaming, sharp teeth in a lean face, a second hand suit on a familiar frame. Her dark hair was braided in the Brahmese nuptial style, with a stray lock that had slipped free to fall across her forehead.

I knew who they had to be. The way my heart ached at the sight of them, as if it remembered something that I could not. I tore my eyes from the picture to look at Simon, “Is this…?” 

He nodded, “It’s the only thing I still have.”

“I,” I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked down at the picture again, trying to memorize it, “I am grateful you do.”

“You should scan it into your comms,” he said, “I know you don’t remember them, but…”

I did as he said right away, hindered only slightly by the shaking of my hands, “Thank you,” I said, passing the photo back to him. He gripped my hand and I squeezed back, wanting to thank him more deeply, more sincerely, but rather lost for words, “Simon, I…”

“There you are,” I turned to find Juno in the doorway. He didn’t quite meet my eye; the genial act was for the benefit of my in-laws, then. I had hoped it might be otherwise, but I knew Juno better than that, “I, uh. We’re leaving,” he said, taking in my and Simon’s clasped hands, “Sorry, uh, if that’s… okay?”

“You’ll come back, right?” Simon asked, fingers tightening on mine.

“Yes, of course.” I said, a little surprised how much I meant it.

We said our goodbyes back in the kitchen, and I was surprised when Delia threw her arms around my midsection in a sudden, tight hug, “It’s so cool that you’re real.” she said, against my chest, “I didn’t think you were.”

I chuckled and hugged her back, “It’s been a rather shocking series of revelations for me as well.”

“When you come back,” she said, quiet enough that we wouldn’t be overheard, “I wanna hear all about what you  _ really _ do, not just what you think my nan wants to hear.”

“I, I look forward to it.” I whispered back. 

And then we were leaving, just Rita, Juno, and I walking back through unfamiliar streets to our ship. Rita babbled about how nice our visit had been, and I nodded along but spoke little. I longed to reach for Juno’s hand, but judging by the distance he kept between us as we walked, he was not interested. I would be lying if I said that it did not sting. We got back to the ship and Rita headed to the cockpit to take us back to the stars, and suddenly, for the first time since we had set out to infiltrate death row, Juno and I were truly alone together.

“Juno?” I said, tentative, “I… believe we are overdue to discuss some things. Can we… talk?”

I watched him consider refusing, but then he steadied himself with a deep breath, “Yeah. Fine. Let’s talk.” He began walking towards our room and I followed, hoping that I could take that choice of venue as a positive sign.

Our bedroom door behind me and I said, as evenly as I could. “You are angry with me.”

“Oh, good,” he snarked, “You noticed.”

I sighed. Earlier I had antagonized him — always a gamble with my hot-tempered Juno — and though it had succeeded in getting him to break his silence, it hadn't gotten us any nearer to the elusive _communication_ I knew we ought to be doing. I opted for a gentler approach this time, my weariness bleeding into my voice, “Juno, love, we won’t get anywhere that way.”

“It’s just, I thought  _ I _ was the one with the goddamn hero complex!” the words burst out of him, boiling with honesty, and he threw his hands up, “I know you’ve got a save-the-world streak of your own, Nureyev, but you’re supposed to always have three exit strategies ready or whatever, you’re  _ not _ supposed to try and sacrifice yourself for a stupid cause!”

“Don’t tell me your anger is territorial,” I said, sitting at the foot of our bed, “I was not trying to steal your move, so to speak.”

“My anger is about you being a fucking hypocrite!” he spat, pacing, “If I was an idiot for wanting to save Mars from Miasma, what does that make you?”

“An idiot, I suppose,” I said simply, though his criticism had found its mark, “And I suppose, too, something of a hypocrite. But I should think you’d understand the urge.”

Juno groaned, “Of course I understand the fucking urge! I understand it all too well, that’s  _ the problem! _ ” I raised my eyebrows, indicating for him to go on. He did so, pacing and talking with mounting speed, “You were at a low point, sucked back into all that traumatic bullshit with Mag and Brahma, and I was trying to  _ be there for you _ because I know what that’s like, okay? I know it can make it seem like it's all been leading to some last blaze of glory, make you wanna jump in the path of the nearest bomb! So I went with you to, to  _ help _ you and keep you  _ safe  _ and you just  _ disappeared  _ on me!”

He was right, and I couldn’t help but bristle sharply, “Now who’s a hypocrite, Juno.”

“No,” he snarled, eye bright and shoulders squared, standing his ground in a way that I couldn’t help but be proud of, “No, you don’t get to do that! You don’t get to use my old failures as a goddamn crutch to justify  _ hurting  _ me.”

He was right, again. That was a low-blow at best and a conversation we'd had more than enough times, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Juno,” I explained weakly, “I was trying to do the right thing—”

“You were trying to be a hero.” he corrected, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I suppose I was. Is that so wrong, to want to stand up against the big, mean world?” I demanded, invoking my words from so long ago.

He snorted, “C’mon, you don’t want to be  _ like me _ , Nureyev.”

“Why shouldn’t I want to be like you? I adore you and admire you and—”

“You fucking  _ scared _ me, you bastard!” he burned so bright in his anger, he always had, but the brightness in his one blue eye was not all anger. I could see the fear there, and the pain, tears he was fighting desperately to keep from falling, “I already lost my other half once, Nureyev,” he bit out, sharp as the snap of a whip, voice cracking, “I _can’t_ do it again!”

“My Juno,” I said with despairing fondness, for right there he had bared for me the very heart of the matter. He was visibly trembling with the effort of keeping it together, keeping the tangle of anguish about Mars, and me, and Simon, and Benzaiten all inside of him, “I’m sorry, so terribly sorry.” I held out my hand to him. I wanted with all my heart and soul to hold him, to soothe him, but it was not for me to decide.

“You were going to leave me behind,” he accused, voice hoarse with unshed tears, “What was I supposed to  _ do _ without you?”

As much as it pained me to think of it, I began to assure him, “Juno, you would have found—”

“And what about  _ your brother _ _?”_ he insisted, “What about Simon? You just found him ‘n’ you woulda j-just left him behind again, let him blame himself? Let him wonder if-if it wouldn’t’ve been better if it’d just been _him_ that—?”

It broke my heart, the tears streaming from his eye at last and his words slurring together. It was true that Simon might have felt that way, but Juno was not talking about Simon anymore, “Please,” I interrupted, both hands outstretched to him now, “Love, I’m sorry,  _ please _ , won’t you come here?”

He hovered stubbornly for a few seconds before finally —  _ oh, finally _ — tumbling into my lap.


	12. Grounding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> the bois talk stuff out so there's discussion of murder, grief, jealousy, suicidal ideation  
> discussion of the incomplete consent Nureyev pondered in ch 9

Nureyev’s arms surrounded me, pulling me into his familiar embrace. And listen, I was still pissed off. I still wanted to rage against him, to rant and rave about the double standards and the unfairness and roughly a thousand other things. But… I could feel his pulse against my cheek and he smelled  _ so _ good and at the end of the day, I’m pretty weak. I melted against him, hands scrambling for purchase on the back of my-now-his sweater, and I cried. Nureyev held me, rocked me like a baby, honestly, as I cried. And I would have found that a little bit humiliating, if it hadn’t been so goddamn reassuring. 

As my sobs subsided, I allowed myself to enjoy the feeling of his fingers moving through my hair. He must have been able to tell that I’d regained some of my composure, because for the first time in a while he spoke up, “I’m so deeply sorry, Juno,” he said softly, lips brushing over the skin of my temple, “I… I regret it.”

“Is that the truth?” I asked.

He considered it for a couple of seconds, “I regret the way I’ve made you feel,” he clarified, “I… wish I had gone about things differently. I was not thinking clearly at the time, or I’m sure I would have.” I hummed, unconvinced. He added, in a tone of certainty, “In my right mind, I would never have left without a plan, without an escape route, or…” he stopped himself.

I lifted my head from his shoulder and met his eyes. I was surprised to find them red-rimmed and bright, evidence that he had been crying too, “Or?” I prompted.

“Or without properly bidding you farewell.”

I winced at the memory of his rushed goodbye over our comm call with Rita, “What did you do anyway?” I asked, “What was so important?”

He shook his head, “I… I didn’t have a plan, Juno. I ultimately killed the Prime Minister, but I imagine he would have died all the same without my intervention.” his shoulders slumped and he pressed his forehead to my collarbone with a groan, “I risked everything, I wounded you so gravely, and all for nothing more than a heroic whim. The rebels would have brought down New Kinshasa with or without me.”

“Yeah, but I bet the Prime Minister deserved it.” I said, my anger sputtering in the wake of his remorse and shame.

He laughed dryly against me, “Of course he did. A truly vile man.”

A silence stretched out between us, full of too much to say and too much uncertainty regarding how the hell to say it. Nureyev found his tongue first. Asking tentatively, “Encountering Simon has prompted you to miss Benzaiten. Would you say that’s true?”

I exhaled a mirthless laugh, twisting out of Nureyev’s lap to sprawl on our bed, “False,” I answered, “I always miss Benzaiten,” I could feel Nureyev’s frown even though my eyes remained glued to our ceiling, “But… yeah, everything with Simon has sorta,” I waved a hand vaguely, “Stirred all that up.”

Nureyev laid down beside me, head propped up on one hand. I couldn’t resist looking at him any longer. His expression was one of concern, sort of careful, a line between his arched brows and a soft sadness in his eyes. He was so beautiful, and my heart ached with how close I had come to losing him, how close he had come to being _gone,_ “Is there anything I can do?” he asked, his fingers toying distractedly with the collar of my shirt, “Would you be happier if I were to distance myself from Simon?”

A selfish, insecure part of me cheered at the thought, but I was already shaking my head, “No,” I insisted, “No, just because I can’t hang out with Benten doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hang out with Simon.”

Nureyev’s keen eyes examined my face and he observed, “You are jealous?” I shrugged and looked away from him, “Juno…”

“Yeah, fine, so I’m jealous,” I shrugged again, “You have a brother, I don’t, I’ll get over it. Not everybody gets to have a family, that’s old news.”

“I’m your family, Juno,” Nureyev crooned softly, and I practically heard the  _ click _ of his clever brain making a connection, “Ah,” he said, “Is it sharing _me_ that you’re jealous about?”

“It sounds stupid when you put it like that,” I pointed out sullenly, “But I mean… you know, until Rita figured it out, I was the only person that even knew  _ your name _ , Nureyev. Now you’ve got somebody who  _ shares _ the damn name!”

“You could share my name, too, if you liked, Juno.” Nureyev’s voice dropped into that deep silky place that I was never very good at saying no to.

I couldn’t help but smile a little at that, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind, but it wasn’t really my point,” Nureyev batted his damn eyelashes at me and I admitted, “Fine, it’s just that you… ugh, it sounds so crazy, but... you were all mine.”

“Oh, Juno, my love,” he cooed, his hand soft and cool as it cupped my cheek, “I swear by each of the stars, I am still all yours.”

My stupid stomach fluttered and my stupid heart leapt. How was it so easy for him to do that when I was so  _ mad _ at him, “Nureyev…”

“My dear Juno...” he rested his head beside mine, his hand finding mine where it rested against my stomach. Our fingers tangled together and we lay quietly for a moment, and I felt shaky gratitude for every beat of his heart that I felt against my shoulder. 

I had to ask.

“Nureyev, you don’t…” damn, I’d heard the question so many times, but I’d never been the one asking it before. It was harder than I would have thought to get the words out, “You don’t want to die, do you?”

Nureyev chuckled softly, “No, I don’t.” he said, “In fact, I’ve never been quite so sure of it as I am now. There’s nothing quite like facing your certain and imminent demise to make you appreciate just how much you’d like to keep living.”

I grimaced at the ceiling, “If you say so,” I said, “I… I’m glad it had that effect for you. ‘S’better than the alternative.”

His arm looped around my midsection, his face tucking in comfortingly against my shoulder, “I might not have given so confident an answer last night,” he confessed, “I was… rather out of sorts.”

“Out of sorts?”

“I couldn’t seem to ground myself,” he explained, “I felt disconnected from my body. Almost unsure if I had died or not… I…” he sighed and I turned my head to look at him. His eyes were shut, his mouth thin and sad, “I am aware it’s water well under the bridge now, Juno, but I feel compelled to apologize to you again for that night in Hyperion City, after Miasma. I—”

“Nureyev, I—” I tried to cut in. No matter how many times we hashed it out, I just couldn’t seem to see how  _ he _ was the one who had erred that night.

“I don’t believe I was equipped to empathize with what you may have felt that night,” he went on, undeterred, “Not until now. I… I was so terribly selfish, Juno, so blinded by my own relief at our liberation from that place and our survival. I _should_ have seen to it you ate a square meal and got a few nights of good sleep before I laid a finger on you, much less demanded any life-altering decisions from you.”

“Babe,” I rolled onto my side to face him properly, “Thanks, but I don’t think it woulda made much difference. I was so fucked up, I probably would have just seen it as rejection if you hadn’t jumped into bed with me.”

Nureyev sighed, “And I was operating under the false assumption that I understood a single thing about you.”

“We’ve come a long way since then.” I reassured him, stroking that stubborn curl off his brow only for it to flop back into his face.

His expression softened under the touch, but there was still sorrow in his dark, shining eyes, “I want to believe that that is true, Juno,” he said delicately, “But how can I, when I’ve let you down so profoundly?”

“You didn’t  _ let me down _ , you brave, stupid  _ idiot _ ,” the corner of Nureyev’s lips twitched up in a smile at my redundant word choice, “You just… really scared the shit out of me. I… if we hadn’t found you, if you’d  _ died _ your heroic death,” my voice shook slightly just speaking it into existence, “It’s not like I could have held it against you. I would've tried for a while, yeah, I would have been pissed and lost and, and you would have broken my goddamn heart. But… I would have understood it, I might’ve even managed to forgive you eventually if I didn’t find a bomb to throw myself at first.”

Nureyev’s eyes shone with tears again as they searched my face, “I didn’t want to leave you behind,” he said, barely above a whisper, “When I stood there on that balcony and looked death in the face, I… my last thoughts were of you, Juno. That I hoped you would not hate me for it too much, that I wished I could have kissed you one more time.”

My eyes prickled again, “ _ Nureyev _ ,” I managed, voice rough, shaking my head, “I couldn’t hate you. Not even for that.”

“Juno,” he smiled at me so tragically, as if he thought I might actually deny him, “Please, won’t you kiss me?”

What kind of lady would I be to deprive him of that? I didn’t bother with words, we’d had plenty of those and with any luck we’d have ample time for more. I took his face in my hands, and I pressed my lips to his, and I kissed him like it was the last time, pouring all of the love and pain and hope and relief I could muster into the silken sweetness of his mouth.


	13. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Buckle in for some romantic mild smut!
> 
> TW:  
> non-explicit sex  
> theft (idk how you're reading this if you're triggered by theft)

Juno’s kiss was absolution. 

His stubble rasped against my chin but his lips were velvet, and his sigh upon my tongue was sweetness almost too pure to bear. Our arms wrapped around each other again and it was a relief to have Juno so close to me, the warm softness of him pressed to my body. It was all I could imagine wanting, holding him in my arms with his lips on mine, until he sucked my bottom lip and all of a sudden, my body seemed to remember all of the other exciting, delectable things Juno and I could do together.

Juno seemed to make the discovery at just the same moment, if the way his hips ground against mine was any indication. Through the silky fabric of my pants, I could feel him getting hard and I felt dizzy with it, my own body mirroring the change in his. His tongue glided along the points of my teeth and he whimpered.

The sound was like the striking of those old matches they had once used on Earth, and suddenly, close as we were, it was not nearly close enough. His hands — those warm, rough palms of his — were gliding along my bare skin, breaking our kiss to pull his old sweater off from over my head. My hands had the same idea, dancing deftly down his buttons until I could finally push his shirt aside, mouth watering at the way the muscles in his chest and shoulders shifted as he shrugged the garment off. Juno shot me a grin and I realized I’d been caught staring, “You’re beautiful, my goddess.” I said, by way of explanation.

Juno tutted, and tucked his hands into the waistband of my pants, tugging them off me with haste, “You,” he said, his eye roving over every exposed inch of me. I waited for the quip, the flirty little sarcastic turn, but when Juno’s eye locked with mine, the look I found there was profound and sincere, “Are the love of my life.” he said, and I pulled him down into another kiss.

When we parted again, breathless and red-faced, he stood up on shaky legs, wriggling out of his pants and fetching lube from the nightstand, “Juno,” I sighed, as he landed back in our bed beside me, “Will you make love to me?”

A glimpse of his usual sardonic manner, one eyebrow arching up as he knelt between my knees and brandished the bottle of lubricant, “That’s kinda the plan, Nureyev, yeah.”

“I mean to say…” What was it, exactly, that I meant to say? My words failed me. I knew only that I felt uncharacteristically… _soft_. It was far from the first time I found myself naked and at Juno Steel’s mercy — indeed that was my favorite way to be, tied only with having _him_ at _my_ mercy — but our tears were barely dry, the near-loss of each other still so frightfully fresh that my heart seemed unsecured in my chest. I felt sure that if Juno were to be too rough with my heart just then, it would in fact likely rattle free and fall out of me, and shatter itself dramatically on our bedroom floor. 

“Relax, babe,” Juno said, gently, the soft expression on his face telling me that he knew, that he understood. He cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing against my cheek, “I’ll take care of you.”

To put it in the simplest terms, I melted. And Juno was true to his word. With gentle fingers, and gentler words, he opened me up. I sighed his name and oaths of love on each trembling breath, and blossomed like a flower in the nurturing warmth of his light. When he entered me, it was as though our very spirits aligned. I quaked like a leaf and clung to him as his broken sigh brushed my cheeks, “Nureyev,” he gasped, “I love you, _oh._ ”

“Juno, my sweet, my beautiful Juno…” I babbled, legs folding around his hips and keeping his close as he found the rhythm of his thrusts, pleasure filling me up like the hum of liquor, the soaring of music, the hot pull of a nearby star, “Goddess, my goddess, Juno…”

“Please,” Juno whispered, when our bodies flowed together like the ancient tide of some primordial ocean, “Stay, stay with me, d-don’t leave.”

The moan that escaped my throat was one of grief as well as pleasure, grief that I had ever so much as entertained the idea of leaving. I wanted to be _here_ , right here with Juno, forever, for always, for as long as this cold, indifferent universe allowed us this small pocket of love and safety, “Juno,” I all-but-sobbed, “N-never, I’ll never leave, I’m sorry-sorry so sorry—”

“Shh,” he soothed, covering my face with kisses, “I’ve got you, babe, Peter, I love you, I’ve got you.”

It did not last long, the pleasure heightened by the orchestral swell of our emotions, and it was on the high woodwinds peal of our relief that we climaxed. We held each other, wrapped tight together as the sweat on our skin cooled, our heartbeats pressed flush together. 

“Juno,” I said, when I trusted my voice to be within my control. I stroked his cheek and kissed his forehead, “I love you so.”

Juno cracked a weary, contented smile, “I love you, Nureyev.”

“You called me Peter before.” I observed, a little drowsily, as I snuggled into him.

He hummed affirmatively, “It's your name,” he pointed out. I made a sound of concession, “I got used to hearing it,” he lifted his head to peer at me, “Is it okay?”

“I gave you my name, Juno,” I told him, “I’ve never minded you using that particular gift.”

“Okay,” he said, and kissed the side of my nose before nestling his head back into the pillow. I was almost asleep, hovering in the dim twilight between consciousness and dreams when Juno’s voice drew me back, asking, “So, how are we going to steal Delia those eyes?”

I grinned and actually giggled against Juno’s neck, “I have some ideas,” I said, “But first, I should think we’ve both earned a nap.” Juno mumbled something into my hair about how I was supposed to be the master thief, but I was floating too far into sleep to defend my good name. 

**~ a few weeks later ~**

“You truly think she isn’t disappointed that it’s only the one?” I asked Juno, twiddling my thumbs nervously as we sat together in the bland little waiting room of the clinic on Snotra.

“Did she sound disappointed to you?” Juno asked, “My ears are still ringing.”

“Mm,” I hummed, “I suppose you have a point.”

“Excuse me,” Juno sniffed, not quite suppressing his crooked smile, “But I think I’m kinda the resident expert on cybernetic eyes, and missing eyes for that matter.”

“That you are, my love,” I tapped under his chin with one knuckle, delighting in the slight blush that rose in his cheeks, “And I defer to your expertise.”

“Well, okay. Good.” he said, flustered.

“If she’s dissatisfied, I suppose we can always just go steal her another.” I said, a little bored at the prospect. It was never quite as much of a thrill to break in somewhere a second time.

“Oh, no. No way,” Juno insisted, sitting up straight and shaking his head as if I’d made an outrageous statement, “We barely scraped by those stupid security droids the first time! I’m _not_ going back in there.”

“If you insist,” I shrugged, throwing Juno a sly smile, “A different cybernetics lab would pose a much more enticing challenge anyway.”

Juno opened his mouth, no doubt to try and dissuade me from any future heists — as if he did not know better than to try and talk me out of my nature, as if he did not enjoy the problem solving and the adrenaline of a heist quite as much as I did — but before he could get a word out, the door back to the exam rooms opened. Simon appeared, wearing the glowing smile of a proud parent, outshone only by the grin on Delia’s face. Her right eye remained brown and unfocused, but on the left the plasma-blue and chrome of the cybernetic lens whirred eagerly. 

She and Simon crossed to us quickly, Delia tugging her father impatiently as her new eye flicked hungrily back and forth between Juno and myself, “Uncle Peter!” she exclaimed, “Uncle Juno!” she turned to her father and said in a tone of abject glee, “Why didn’t you tell me they were _pretty?_ ”

Simon scoffed a laugh as we left the clinic and emerged onto a quiet Snotran street, “ ‘ _Pretty’?_ Well, maybe I didn’t want you to feel bad that you couldn't see them?”

Delia let out an unconvinced sound, “That never kept you from telling me about stuff before, dad,” she grinned deviously, her new eye scanning me thoroughly, “You just didn’t want me to know your brother was _fancier_ than you, is that it?”

I preened as Juno laughed, and Simon pointed out uselessly that ‘ _fancy_ ’ and ‘ _pretty_ ’ were not the same thing. It did not matter, he had lost his daughter’s interest completely. She was staring at Juno, as his laugh died down to that captivatingly fragile smile of his. He realized he was being watched closely and the color rose in his cheeks again and Delia made a delighted sound, “Uncle Juno,” she practically squealed, “You’re so _beautiful_ , I had no idea!”

“I’m not—” Juno tried to deny, at the same instant that I effusively agreed, “Isn’t he a vision?”

“When we get back home, can I draw you?” she asked, eye still trained on Juno’s bashful smile.

“Um, I guess, if you want...” Juno agreed, glancing at me. I could practically hear him thinking some nonsense about me being a better subject for a portrait.

“I think I’m glad you only got me one eye,” Delia said thoughtfully, “It means you and I _match_ ,” she gasped delightedly, “Do you think I should start wearing an _eyepatch_ ? That would be _cool._ ”

Juno advised Delia to ask Rita about eyepatches and she prattled on excitedly the whole way back to their home, sidetracked every few moments by some thing or other that caught her attention. Once inside, she hurried to fetch the art supplies that had been gathering dust, I assumed — giggling a couple of times at the dizziness that came with adjusting to a new cybernetic, Simon following after her to try and get her to slow down — leaving Juno and I standing in the front hall. 

I smiled down at him, feeling deeply vindicated as I pointed out, “Delia has a very keen eye for beauty, it would appear.”

He rolled his eye, “Oh, hush,” he said, “It’s probably the cybernetic acting up or something.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” I disagreed, caressing the poetic line of his cheek with two fingertips, “You are a work of art, my dear Juno, is it only natural that an artist should recognize that quality.”

Juno didn’t try to deny it, he simply leaned into my touch and smiled up at me, “You,” he said, “Are a _flirt_. And a fiend.”

I gave a gasp of mock astonishment, but conceded, “Guilty as charged.”

“The infamous Angel of Brahma,” he said, tugging my lapel and planting a soft kiss on my lips, “Confesses to the charges of flirtation and fiendishness.”

“And to abject besottedness.” I added, a little dreamily.

“I don’t think that’s a crime.” Juno pointed out and kissed me again.

“Is that so?” I asked, “But it feels so good, it must be illegal.”

Juno chuckled and kissed me again, a little more deeply this time. It was silk and sweet and it felt as always like coming home. Such bliss that it could not even be broken when our niece caught sight of us and cried out shrilly that it was _so romantic_. In truth, I couldn’t agree with her more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> Thank you so much for everybody that's been reading and leaving comments, I hope you enjoyed the ride! I'm on tumblr at pippalovestunabrick.tumblr if you want to say hi!!


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